


We Glory in Our Sufferings

by vshendria



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Physical Abuse, Slow Burn, Spiritual, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, spiritual warfare, tomas-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vshendria/pseuds/vshendria
Summary: This story picks up right after the death of Andy Kim and goes in a slightly different direction, with lots of plot, oodles of hurt/comfort and eventual tomarcus.  If Tomas had lived three thousand years ago, they might have called him a prophet.  As it is, he is driven and manipulated by God, Marcus, Mouse, and a fallen angel named Samyaza.  How can he learn to use his gift while staying true to God and not losing Marcus?  Meanwhile, Marcus knows he is compromised because he will do anything to save Tomas, but there's no stopping that now.  He might as well stick around and try to save Tomas from himself.  Unfortunately, events have transpired that will try to get between them. Tomas has been manipulated into a deal with the devil...but it it possible this is a part of God's purpose for him?  For both of them?  Marcus loves God but sometimes he hates him too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am a hurt/comfort junkie so Tomas is going to be put through the wringer. 
> 
> I feel I need to explain that although I am not a believer, I intend no criticism of God or religion. This is fiction, and God is a really interesting character for fanfiction. And it's canonical that he is not necessarily a nice guy. I am not a person of faith, but I love writing about faith and spirituality, if that makes any sense. I love stories of redemption and spiritual warfare. That's why I love The Exorcist so much.
> 
> Yes, the end game here is tomarcus but it's going to be a very long time coming. At the same time, their relationship and their love for each other is going to be front and centre. It's all about the feels, folks.

_Not only so, but we so glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us._

Romans 5: 3-5, NIV

 

After waking from his near integration, Tomas had been dazed and uncommunicative, staring into the distance. He didn’t seem to be aware that he was crying. As for Marcus, he had started shaking and couldn’t stop. Bleedin’ useless.  


It had taken a while to extricate themselves from that derelict schoolhouse, what with having to wait for the authorities to arrive from the mainland, making their sad little parade to the ferry and then back across the water to Seattle proper. They had followed the ambulance carrying Andy’s body in what had been Andy’s SUV, driven by Shelby.  


At the ferry parking lot, it had been Mouse who took Tomas’s arm and pulled him along, got him into their truck by pushing him in from the driver’s side. Marcus had let himself be ordered into the truck from the other side.  


They went to the police station to give a statement that was, of necessity, mostly lies. Marcus explained how he and his partner had come to be involved with the Kim family via their intervention with Harper and her abusive mother. There were the usual eye rolls and gapes when he mentioned that he was an exorcist, but when they ran his name and found out he was an ex-priest, they were a lot more willing to accept that he was telling the truth, regardless of whether or not they bought into the idea of demon possession. It didn’t hurt that Rose and the children confirmed his story and that he was accompanied by an actual priest who was nominally attached to a parish in Chicago. They told him not to leave town until they gave him permission—a command he had no intention of obeying—and let him go for the time being.  


In the hallway outside the interview room, Tomas was sitting on a bench seat with Mouse beside him. He was again staring into the distance. His eyes were reddened and his lips absolutely white. He was murmuring prayers in Spanish. A couple of police officers were standing nearby, talking amongst themselves in urgent tones and occasionally giving Tomas an anxious look. It was not common to see a priest in distress; priests were always expected to be engaged in the labour of giving others comfort, not in need of comfort themselves. Marcus wanted to tell them to bugger off.  


Mouse had a hand casually resting on the crook of Tomas’s arm, and for some reason this bumped the anger in Marcus up to full rage.  


“They gave me leave,” he said. “Let’s go.”  


Tomas blinked several times, like he was trying to recall where he was. He looked slowly up at Marcus. “What?” he said.  


“I’m knackered. I want to go back and sleep for about a year.” And bruised and aching all over from his tussles in the woods. He was getting stiffer by the moment.  


“I, uh—” Tomas raised a hand towards Marcus, then dropped it, perhaps realizing that Marcus was not in a receptive mood. Oh, to be sure, he would beg Marcus for his forgiveness, but then he would still do whatever he damned well thought was right when it came down to it, wouldn’t he? “I need to stay here.”  


“Why?” Marcus demanded.  


“I need to talk to Rose and the children.”  


“Don’t you think they’ve had enough of your pastoral care for today?”  


Tomas frowned, blinked. Damn him for looking like a kicked puppy, and always so bloody open, everything showing on his face. It was dirty pool. And, as usual, Tomas found a way to win. He firmed his voice and said, with his bloody relentless compassion, “I have messages for them…from Andy.”  


From his little trip inside Andy’s demon interloper, no doubt. Marcus closed his eyes and breathed deep. He didn’t ask for the details. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the motel.”  


As he headed for the exit, he refused to look back and offer any visual support. If Tomas wanted to play the part of St. Sebastian in this little drama, he would have to see it through by himself.  


Marcus pushed through the double doors and noticed that, unaccountably, Mouse was alongside him. “What do you want?” he said, and heard himself sounding far more hostile than he had meant to.  


“Were you planning on walking then? I’ll drive you back.”  


He said nothing. He got back in the truck. Watching her walk around the hood untroubled, apparently, by any sense of regret, he couldn’t help but recall how Mouse had placed her gun in Andy’s hand to simulate a self-inflicted death, and suddenly he was rushing back to that horrible moment in his mind when he had just squeezed—so, so gentle, so small that motion—the trigger on the gun and Andy’s head had jerked, just once.  


He’d been responsible for a lot of bad in his life, he had cut the wretched Simon’s throat without a moment of regret, but he’d never before killed an innocent. Surely this had not been God’s design—or had it? If he had chosen Tomas for something special, He could not be willing to see Tomas lost to a filthy abomination, could He?  


But the truth was that what God intended hadn’t mattered a damn to Marcus. Seeing Tomas _in extremis_ , sweating and shuddering, his mouth stretched in an existential scream, Marcus had known that if he didn’t act, he would lose Tomas. He believed Tomas when he said he was willing to sacrifice himself _bloody martyr straight out of a children’s book of saints_ for Andy. Or maybe the damned fool was just foolish enough to think he could take on the demon and win. Either way, Marcus made that decision to pull the trigger for himself, not for Tomas and not even for God. At that moment, he’d known he’d do anything— _anything_ —as long as Tomas stayed safe.  


He never should have taken Tomas as an apprentice.  


The driver-side door slammed, and he startled. He was shivering even though it was almost the end of May. It got damp in the coastal Northwest. Mouse started the engine, cranked the heat, and then said, quietly, “You did the right thing.”  


“I’m sure you think so.”  


“You saved two souls today, Marcus, and you know one of them is too important to lose.”  


He sighed and rubbed a sore patch on his arm.  


“And you destroyed a demon,” Mouse went on. “I call that a win.”  


“How many people have you killed?” he retorted, turning on her.  


If he had expected to see her stricken by his judgment, he was to be disappointed. She gazed back at him calmly. “I kill abominations that look like people. I exorcise everyone I can.”  


“You were pretty quick to decide Andy was a lost cause.”  


Mouse’s voice got hard. “We couldn’t help him anymore, Marcus. If we’d kept trying until the police showed up, what then? He gets away, finds some other children to kill?”  


“Our job—”  


“Our job is to protect the innocent. Andy was a good man, but he wasn’t innocent. At some point he must have invited the thing in.” She added quickly, before he could explode in outrage, “I’m not saying he deserved to suffer like he did, or to die. No one ever does, and that’s why demons are demons. They take advantage of people in a moment of weakness to destroy them. But believe me, better to die than to be lost to _that_ —"  


Marcus shook his head. He felt close to tears again, because he was going to have to leave Tomas now to save him, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d gotten used to having company, and more than that, he’d gotten used to having _Tomas_ for company. They argued, sure, they squabbled like an old married couple, but they also laughed together, took care of each other, watched crap TV and ordered take away. Occasionally they discussed deep theological issues such as whether or not the church should pay for priests’ dental care. Marcus had never had that before, never. It felt like a sin.  


They didn’t speak during the ride to the motel, as Marcus struggled to get control of himself, to envision himself packing up and walking away. She was right, he had no call playing holier than thou, and certainly not to her. God was not some plushie toy made up of happy feelings and hallmark cards. God’s justice was absolute, uncompromising. Through the years when Marcus had laid hands violently on the possessed, he’d been content to know he was God’s hammer.  


He had not been God’s hammer when he killed Andy, though. True, he had killed to protect a man who seemed to shimmer with the grace of God, but what if it was it false light? He kept warning Tomas that there were forces manipulating him, taking him in. Maybe it was Marcus who was being manipulated.  


Marcus realized that they were sitting outside the motel. The engine had stopped, and Mouse was sizing him up. She said into the silence, “I just know what’s going through your head right now. You’re thinking that for Tomas’s own sake you need to leave him. Don’t you dare, Marcus.”  


“What do you know about it,” he muttered.  


“I know God brought you two together.”  


“God said nothing about it to me.”  


“Oh, shut it. I’m going to tell you this just one time. Tomas _needs_ you, Marcus. God’s hand is on him and He’s not going to be nice about it. I’m not going to be nice either. I’m not your meek little church mouse anymore. If you aren’t there, I might let God drive Tomas right into the ground. So you get your ass out of this truck, go in there, have a nap and a shower and yell at God or whoever to get yourself sorted… but you aren’t leaving or I swear to God I will hunt you down and drag you back myself. Are we understanding each other?”  


Her eyes were furious with some emotion that was not quite anger and not quite pain. She was the same woman he had once known, but _not_. Before this day, his last memory of her had been of her writhing on a filthy mattress, howling, her face horribly mottled and deformed by possession, her eyes like two red, dirty pennies.  


She was only slightly less terrifying now.

*****

There were always those people who wanted to do favours for a priest, offer little spiritual bribes like a free coffee or a home-cooked meal. It was Tomas’s policy not to use his collar too much to get by in the world but in this case he couldn’t afford to refuse it. One of the police officers, a tall, well-fed middle-aged man who happened to sport a small crucifix, was offering Tomas a ride back to his motel.  


Tomas was all but paralyzed with exhaustion by then. He’d rallied long enough to deliver the messages from Andy, borne up by his responsibility for these people, by the fact of his failure. Rose was looking at him, Verity was looking at him, they all were looking at him like he was truth incarnate, someone possessed of special knowledge, even after he had discharged his messages to them.  


He did not feel special. What he felt was _dirty_ , inside and out. He could still taste that horror, and how strange that almost losing yourself could have a taste to it? Oh, he’d met his share of evil by now. Most demons were pitiful to him, with their hunger for attention, their vanity and exhibitionism and blind rage. None of them had frightened him like this one. Even after it all washed away and he discovered that he was still, somehow, himself, he knew that he’d lost something, and he wasn’t getting it back, ever.  


No. No, he was fine. He had to be. Marcus had saved him, yes? Tomas just needed time, and rest, and a bottle of Tylenol. The entire top half of his skull was a dull but constant ache. He had a vague memory of someone shoving a protein bar in his hand at some point, but he’d only managed one bite before his stomach refused to cooperate. He was starving but nauseous, and desperately frightened that by the time he got back to the motel, Marcus wouldn’t be there.  


“Thank you,” he said as they walked out into the late afternoon sun. “Bless you. Bless you….” Belatedly, he searched the man’s badge for a name. “Officer Brinzini.”  


Not his most eloquent moment.  


He had said his good-byes to Rose and the children, taken their contact information. He had an email but it was attached to his parish at St. Anthony’s and he was afraid to use it now. He would have to create a google mail account, tomorrow, first thing—  


“Here, Father,” said Brinzini. He opened the passenger side door of his car, swept a pile of papers into his arms and deposited them in the back seat. “Sit here. We don’t want you in the back like a perp.” He tried a grin.  


Tomas managed a small smile. “No, of course.”  


He sagged into the seat, his body aching. He wondered if this was what happened to you over time as an exorcist, after years of irregular sleeping and eating, getting tossed around like a pinãta, not to mention the spiritual and emotional toll. It was no wonder Marcus was so cranky when he got out of bed, after 40 years of it.  


“…Father.”  


Officer Brinzini was attempting to converse with him. Tomas shook himself. “I’m sorry?”  


“I said, it’s a terrible thing. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”  


It was a trite statement from a police officer in a large city, a person who had to see the worst in people on a regular basis. Tomas could think of nothing to say in reply.  


Officer Brinzini cleared his throat. “Those are some tough kids though.”  


“Yes,” Tomas agreed. “They are.”  


“And the fact that he wasn’t their real father, maybe—“  


“He _was_ their real father,” Tomas snapped.  


“Oh… yes,” the man said, and cleared his throat.  


Tomas pressed the heel of his hand into his brow, hoping that he could somehow grind down the headache. He made the mental adjustment he needed to be more generous to this man, who was just trying to be a good Catholic. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “I’m very tired.”  


“I understand, Father.”  


There was no conversation after that. Tomas thanked the man profusely at the motel. He climbed out with a silent groan, saw that Mouse had the hood of their truck open and was fixing something. Tomas hadn’t been aware that anything was wrong with it, but then he’d never been a mechanical genius. It had been all he could do to keep the boiler running at St. Anthony’s. Mouse gave him a look that was, if not warm, not unwelcoming.  


“Marcus?” Tomas asked.  


“You should talk to him.”  


He went inside, feeling like every step was an effort. He wanted nothing but to lay down and fall unconscious.  
Marcus was sitting on the bed nearest the window, hunched and burdened.  


“Marcus—“ Tomas began, not sure what to say to a person who had just shot someone in the head. He’d heard a lot of surprising things in the confessional, even a confession of murder, once. It had been an accident based in stupidity, and Tomas had been proud that he’d managed to convince the person to turn himself in. This was different, and it had not escaped him that Marcus was angry at him earlier. Not that it changed his view of what he should have done.  


“I was so close to saving him,” was what Tomas said.  


Just like that, Marcus surged up and was standing close to Tomas. “At the cost of your soul.”  


Usually, Tomas had no problem with how close Marcus liked to get, but right now it was very hard to meet his eyes. He found himself staring somewhere around Marcus’s chest, glancing up as much as he could. “It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.”  


“I wasn’t.”  


“I am sorry,” Tomas said. He looked up, saw that Marcus had his lips pressed together hard. Tomas heard his own voice tremble as he offered, “But God will forgive you.”  


“And how can you be so sure of that?”  


“Anything can be forgiven. That was what we were promised….by the resurrection…”  


Grabbing two fistful’s of Tomas’s shirt, Marcus said, “That wasn’t meant as a get out of jail free card!”  


Tomas tried to think of some reply but his head was spinning, his vision closing in. Abruptly he couldn’t seem to find any English words. Or any words at all. There was a tremendous crash and he realized, belatedly, that it was his own body against the floor. He tried to lift his head but it was weighted as though by a thousand gravities. He couldn’t see—no, he was seeing something else—  


_He is in a room that seems to be his old office in St. Anthony’s. He can smell the burning dust of winter as the radiant heat cooks the air but there is still snow piled everywhere in the room. His breath is coming in little cold gasps. The window is covered with black ice. He should be behind his desk, but he is not, because there is someone else sitting there. Tomas recognizes him. John Harplin, the derelict whom he once saw standing across the street from the church, and later came in the church and assaulted Casey… and later identified as the maniac who wanted to kill the Pope. A possessed man. Dangerous, but still a scapegoat. Tomas can smell him. His beard and his clothes smell of pure watery rot, like he’s been dragged up from a grave on the ocean floor. There are small things crawling on him.  
_

_He is crying black tears. He seems to be pleading with Tomas.  
_

_Tomas tries to offer a hand of compassion to him.  
_

_Harplin opens his mouth and Tomas waits to hear the Adversary speak through him, just as it had spoken in the guise of Casey earlier. Instead, there is a horrific, high-pitched clamour. It is no language but pure sound, terrible and alien and Tomas drops onto the floor of his office and screams, trying to cover his ears. It’s the most useless thing he could do. The sound penetrates him instantly, possessing his body. Something is trying to talk to him and while he shouldn’t understand it, he thinks that he does.  
_

He opened his eyes. He was crumpled over on his side on his bed and Marcus was sitting in a chair that he had pulled over, flipping through his bible.  


He must have made a noise because Marcus’s eyes snapped to him. “Tomas?”  


Tomas tried to lift his head, and it was like the sword of St. Michael passed through his left eye, piercing his brain. He moaned and tried to lay very still, while a stream of tears poured out of that eye. His body was greasy with sweat and god knew what else, and he desperately needed a shower and a gallon of water.  


Marcus was sitting beside him now, cupping the side of his face. “Are you all right, Tomas?”  


“ _Dios mio_.”  


“You just—dropped like a stone. What happened?”  


He tried to remember, and got only a vague sense of dust and ice, and…the white noise. “I…think…a vision.”  


“Of what?”  


Tomas remembered thinking that he understood what the screaming was trying to tell him. Now he understood only that he would never understand it. It was not like anything that he could understand. “I don’t know…” he whispered. “But it was different.”  


“Tell me.”  


Tomas shook his head and regretted it deeply. His skull was being split in two. “Ah… _Dios_.”  


“You think it was God talking?”  


Marcus, being Marcus, did not sound very encouraged, or encouraging.  


“I don’t know.”  


“Was it a demon? What lies are they telling you now? How many times—”  


“ _No lo sé! Hablando del rey de Roma, por la puerta asoma_ ….”  


“I didn’t catch that, Tomas…?”  


“ _No lo sé…Dios_ …”  


“You do realize you aren’t speaking English, right?” Marcus’s voice was warming, a bit kinder than it had been. Tomas had been missing that warmth for some hours now. Marcus petted Tomas a bit, skimming through his hair. It felt—well, not good because nothing felt good right now, but it was a little bit of an improvement on life.  


Tomas screwed his one eye open and forced himself to look up at him. Even the dim light slanting in the motel windows felt like a blade. “Marcus?”  


“What?”  


Somehow, Tomas found the strength to reach up and grasp Marcus’s hand as it hovered over his brow. “ _No te vayas_. Please.”  


After a frozen moment, the hand moved again. He stroked Tomas’s brow once more and then moved away. “I’m not going anywhere, my friend.”  


“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you kill Andy.”  


“Never mind that now.”  


“But—”  


“Learn to take yes for an answer, Tomas.” Marcus’s voice was crisp and dismissive, almost laughing at him. He was sounding angry again. “Do you want me to help you up? You need a shower.”  


“Yes, it’s just… I don’t think I can move, Marcus.”  


“C’mon, _vamanos_!”  


Marcus worked his arm underneath Tomas and spun him up and sideways. Braced against Marcus, Tomas swayed onto his feet. The sword and the knives pierced him again and his stomach lurched dangerously, saliva filling the corners of his mouth, but he managed not to heave.  


“There you are,” Marcus said. “Right, then. Bathroom?”  


He kept his hands on Tomas, waiting for Tomas to take the lead and move. Tomas tried to reach up and behind his neck, to remove his collar. In his current state, it was beyond his skills. Marcus reached around and unsnapped it. Tomas had a sudden, odd flashback to Marcus helping him to fasten it, all those months ago in Chicago before he went into his very first exorcism, as though he had been preparing to go into battle. Well, that was exactly what he had been doing.  


“Can you manage?” Marcus said.  


“Yes,” Tomas mumbled. He creaked towards the bathroom, feeling a lot older than he had been just this morning. Aloud, he wondered, “…Mouse…?”  


“She went to get supplies. Food, water… plasters. You hit your head when you fell. You’re a right mess.” Marcus gave him a little nudge. “Leave the door ajar.”  


“Por que?”  


“The door. Ajar.”  


“A jar?”  


“Don’t shut the door all the way!”  


“Oh.”  


“And don’t pass out again! The last thing I need is my partner drowning in a shower.”  


Somehow, Tomas got himself into the bathroom and into a hot shower. He stood under the spray and held onto the wall. “ _Dios mio_ ,” his whispered. “Was that you?”  


The moment he opened himself to it, his mind filled again with the screaming din that had come to him. It filled every part of him. It did not feel like when the demon had tried to enter him. It did not feel like anything he could know, or put into words.  


“What are you trying to tell me?” he whispered. “Please, help me to understand.”  


He prayed and prayed, and while he heard something answering, he didn’t know what it was saying, except that it had to be true.  


A loud knock made him jump.  


“Tomas?”  


He realized that he was huddled on the bathtub floor. He had been hiding his face like a child who believed that if they were not seeing you, you could not see them.  


“I’m fine,” he called out, hearing his voice as though it issued from some other person’s mouth.  


“All right. Mouse is back, with food.”  


Tomas nodded and felt immediately foolish. He knew that he would have to leave the shower or Marcus would come looking for him… and he didn’t think he could bear that. They’d been living almost in each other’s pockets for six months, but they managed to keep some boundaries by maintaining certain rules. One of them was respecting the privacy of bathroom rituals. And as much as there was a part of him that would love to have Marcus come in and take charge of him, handling him with that brusque but still gentle efficiency, he was also embarrassed by that longing. He was the one who took care of other people, because they needed it so badly. Sometimes, in his parish, he would look about him and see an endless abyss of need. He judged no one for taking his help, so why did he feel so hesitant to accept it? Especially from Marcus who, for all his rudeness and warrior’s hardness, seemed to walk about with his heart on his sleeve? Marcus had led a life where tenderness didn’t have any obvious use value, and yet he gave tenderness effortlessly.  


_I don’t want to lose you._  


Tomas knew he could never be that brave, but he could try. He could try.

 

*****

 

Marcus swiftly peeled off his filthy clothes, changing into a clean set of jeans and a t-shirt. He wanted a shower himself, but it would have to wait. He put Tomas’s travel bag full of clothes inside the bathroom, then sat on the bed and prayed, his hands clutched together so hard that his knuckles turned white.  


_God_ , he demanded. _Why is it so hard for you to be kind? What are you up to? What are you doing to this man and why are you making me stand by and watch? He’s a pure soul who loves you and believes in you and wants to do your will and today you almost let him be swallowed up by evil. You want another sacrifice, is that it? You just can’t resist taking your sons and letting them hang on a cross?_  


Five minutes passed.  


Marcus fretted. Tomas should probably not be by himself. He had been babbling in Spanish like he’d forgotten that he could speak English. Marcus was reasonably fluent but he hadn’t been able to make it all out.  


Ten minutes.  


The door to the outside opened without fanfare and Mouse walked in, her arms full of grocery bags.  


“What’s happening?” she asked, almost immediately.  


Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did you bring supper?”  


“Yes. What happened?”  


“He…had some sort of episode.”  


“A vision?”  


“Not like he’s had before. He fell and—Mouse, he screamed.”  


“We need to ask him what he saw.”  


Marcus stared at her in disbelief. “He could barely speak. Or walk. And you want to interrogate him?”  


“I’ll be nice about it.” Mouse went to the small table near the window and began unpacking. Fried chicken and potato salad in plastic containers came out, and fruit, and yogurt. Tea, of course. Biscuits. A large bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and another of ibuprofen, antibiotic cream, plasters, a six pack of water and a bottle of vodka.  


Giving in to his worry, Marcus knocked on the bathroom door and pushed his head into the bathroom. He could barely see for steam. “Tomas?”  


A second, then: “I’m fine.”  


“All right. Mouse is back, with food.”  


Now that he knew that Tomas hadn’t drowned in the tub, Marcus felt safe to tear into the chicken and potato salad. One thing he had always appreciated about Americans was their food. The Brits could give them a run for their money when it came to unhealthy eating, but no one could beat Americans when it came to frying things. The chicken was just a grocery store product but just now it tasted like something from the loving hands of a southern Baptist grandma.  


He and Mouse only just stopped themselves in time to leave some for Tomas. After she finished eating, Mouse poured herself a shot of vodka in a plastic motel cup and settled into one of the two industrial-style chairs with a deep sigh. Marcus remembered that she’d always been someone who took pleasure in the simple things. He had memories of her laying out in the sun on one of those rare, fair days on Iona, just soaking in God’s bounty. He wondered, off-hand, just how much of her was still that person. She’d always enjoyed a good cup of tea. He didn’t remember her tossing back vodka neat before.  


Just when Marcus was thinking about knocking again, the door to the bathroom opened and Tomas emerged. His hair was wet, combed back, and he was wearing his sleep clothes. Tomas, Marcus had learned, had a certain prudishness about him. He never wore shorts or went shirtless in public, even when he was being casual and off-duty, and he always changed his clothes in the bathroom. In the six months they’d been travelling together, Marcus had almost never seen him in his underwear. Maybe it had something to do with being raised by a Catholic _abuela_.  


Tomas hobbled towards the nearest bed, a mere five feet away, as though it were the other side of a chasm.  


“We saved you some dinner,” Marcus said.  


Tomas seemed to be having some difficulty parsing the words.  


“You must be hungry,” Marcus urged. He didn’t want Tomas to go to sleep without eating first.  


“I can’t,” Tomas said, shaking his head.  


He made as though to continue on to the bed, but Mouse had gotten up and crossed over to him. She took his arm and began to steer him towards the table—and, helplessly, he went. Marcus watched in amazement, mostly at her sheer bloody gall. She put Tomas into the chair she had been using, then presented him with a paper plate containing a small scoop of potato salad and two pieces of chicken. He stared at it, then up at Mouse.  


“Eat,” she commanded.  


Tomas ate. It was slow and methodical at first; then gradually, as Tomas’s stomach asserted itself, he picked up speed. He was considerably slowed down because he tried to use a plastic fork and knife to cut his fried chicken, which apparently amused Mouse. Marcus wanted to get somewhere, anywhere else—take a shower, go for a walk, anything to get away from this situation, but he did not want to leave Tomas alone with Mouse.  


“So,” Mouse said. “Where should we go next?”  


“Spokane, obviously,” Marcus answered quickly. “Pick up Bennett.”  


“But do we even know he’s still there?” Mouse wondered, her eyes never leaving Tomas.  


Marcus tilted his head at her, wondering what she meant. Hadn’t she left Bennett in a hospital outside Spokane?  


Tomas set down his flimsy fork and knife. He finally picked up the chicken with his two hands and began to make more serious headway on it. Grease glistened on his chapped lips.  


“There may be a better way,” Mouse went on. “Tomas—“  


Marcus growled, “Leave it.”  


“I won’t leave it. We owe Bennett.”  


At this, Tomas looked up. He put down his chicken, fastidiously wiping his mouth and hands before saying, his accent very thick, “What about Bennett?”  


“I think he’s in danger. We need to find him.”  


“So we go to Spokane,” Marcus pressed.  


“Unless someone else has a better idea.”  


“Like what?” Tomas asked. “What sort of idea?”  


Marcus attempted to stare Mouse down. It didn’t work. She said, “Did you have a vision, Tomas?”  


Tomas blinked at her. He looked at Marcus, clearly puzzling, but Marcus wasn’t sure what it was about. “I…” he said. “I’m not sure.”  


“Marcus said you did.”  


Marcus sincerely wanted to slap her.  


Tomas stood abruptly, cutting their drama short. They both watched him go back into the bathroom. They glared at each other through the sound of water running and tooth brushing. Marcus hissed, “Leave him alone until tomorrow morning at least!”  


Mouse shook her head and poured another finger of vodka.  


“Not a one of us is capable of doing anything to help anyone at this moment,” Marcus said. “We’re more likely to crash into a stop sign on our way there.”  


Tomas was out of the bathroom. He collapsed on his bed, rolling over on one side and pulling the bedspread up around himself. Within moments he gave every evidence of being asleep.  


Mouse started to say something, but was interrupted by Tomas’s voice.  


“ _San Augostino_.”  


They both looked towards the bedspread-covered lump. It hadn’t moved.  


“What did you say?” Mouse asked.  


“St. Augustine. North Dakota. That’s where we’ll find him.”  


Mouse and Marcus exchanged a glance.  


Marcus went to stand over Tomas. His eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly, slowly. Marcus touched him very gently, not quite poking him. He didn’t stir, but he began mumbling in Spanish again. Marcus leaned in close to listen.  


“… _tengo mil dificultades…de los enemigos del alma…salvame… salvame… San Augostino_ …”  


“He’s asleep,” Marcus said, wondering.  


“… _San Augostino_ …”  


“There’s a town called St. Augustine in North Dakota,” Mouse said. She had Tomas’s laptop open and turned it towards Marcus, a look of satisfaction on her face.  


“So?”  


“So it’s a message.”  


“Or just him mumbling some shite in his sleep!”  


“Are you incapable of having faith in another person, Marcus?”  


“Faith has nothing to do with this. Even if it is a message…we don’t know who the message is from, and we need to help Bennett.”  


Mouse lowered her voice. “Look… Bennett isn’t in the hospital anymore.”  


“What? How do you know—?” Marcus heard his volume rising and made an effort to quiet himself.  


“I heard it on the radio on my way back here. It was on the news. A patient went missing from that hospital where I left him, and…and two nurses were killed.”  


Marcus sat down hard on the end of his bed. Dammit, Devon. “You think he’s possessed?”  


“Don’t you? He may already be integrated. That’s what they do. And think of Bennett’s position. We’ll be completely on our own, unable to connect with any of the church’s resources.”  


“And you didn’t think you should mention this earlier?”  


Mouse shrugged. “I thought I’d leave him alone until tomorrow morning at least. Like you said.”  


Marcus managed to keep from shouting with an effort. “Will you kindly step outside?” he said, at length.  


“Are we going to have fisticuffs?” she said, smiling.  


Marcus had the distinct feeling that if they did come to blows, she would kick his ass.  


“I just want to talk to you without disturbing Tomas.”  


“All right.”  


It was a lovely, early autumn night, clear and pleasantly warm, with a mild wind that only just hinted of the cooler days to come. Marcus caught a faint scent of the ocean and thought of Peter. Funny, generous Peter, who had put himself out there and gotten little in return. How did you explain to a person that God was the love of your life, and that whatever space was left in your heart was presently occupied by a masochist with a priest’s collar and penchant for sacrifice?  


And then there was this woman, who knew him at his absolute worst.  


“Claire—” he began.  


“ _Don’t_ call me that!” she hissed. “That woman is dead.”  


“So it says ‘Mouse’ on your passport, does it?”  


“That’s not your problem. It’s ‘Mouse’ or ‘Hey you’ or nothing at all.”  


Marcus closed his eyes. “Fine. What I want to say is, if you’re out for vengeance against me, please don’t use Tomas as a way to get it.”  


He expected her to be angry again. Still. Instead, she looked amused once more.  


“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she said.  


“Throwing my words back at me, debating me over every little thing…using Tomas for…whatever it is you’re using him for.”  


“I’m using him as God clearly intended him to be used. And believe it or not, not everything I do is about you.”  


Somehow, hearing it put like that made him burn with embarrassment. “I don’t think that. But you argue with me over everything.”  


“Because I happen to think you’re wrong, not because you’re you. As soon as you say something right, I’ll agree with you.”  


“You are the most frustrating, obstinate woman…”  


“Oh, should I know my place? Because that’s what the man who exorcised me said, when I woke up. That I should remember my place and stay in it.”  


“That is not what I meant.”  


“Good.”  


Their argument had lurched to a stop unexpectedly.  


“What were we talking about?” Mouse asked, her tone casual.  


“Tomas.” Marcus ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He was just tired now, all his anger spent. He needed sleep like he needed air. “I’m sorry for what I said… I’m just afraid for him, do you get that?”  


“I get that,” she replied softly.  


“I think he already has demons and possibly even God manipulating him. He doesn’t need us doing it too.”  


“That’s…understandable.”  


“So please, in the future, don’t withhold information from him—from us.”  


“I was trying to be kind,” she whispered. “That’s the truth. I realize that you may not have been expecting that from me.”  


Marcus wanted to put a hand on her shoulder but knew she would not receive it well.  


Mouse went on, “Anyway… my point was that we no longer know where Bennett is, and the only lead we have—“  


“—is Tomas’s vision. Or whatever it was.”  


“Yes.”  


With that, Marcus was all out of conversation. “It’s been a shite day, but for the record…I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to sleep until at least six a.m.”  


Mouse raised her brows. “That’s not much of a sleep. Let’s make it seven.”  


“Where are you sleeping?”  


“I have a room next door.” Mouse waved towards the door right next to theirs. “Good night, Marcus.”  


“Good night, Mouse.”  


A moment later, the door closed behind her with a firm click.  


Marcus had the shower that he had been craving, making it quick and efficient so he could be sleeping as soon as possible. Before he hit his bed, he did a quick, visual check on Tomas. The man did not appear to have so much as moved from his previous position, and his face was relaxed, peaceful. Whatever demons might have chased him down into sleep, there was no evidence of it now.  


The beds in the motel rated a solid seven on Marcus’s personal scale. He’d slept on a lot of shite in his day—cots, air mattresses, couches, benches, and much more than he would have liked, floors. By comparison, a middling-soft mattress with worn but clean sheets and a micro-fleece blanket, was like a five-star accommodation. Marcus was asleep almost the moment he laid down, and he didn’t recall any dreams.  


He woke with the usual post-exorcism battery of complaints: sore back and neck, a collection of bruises in full flower, muscles stiff from exertion. Most mornings, he felt every one of his 53 years, but on mornings like this, those years were multiplied by ten. He had been tossed and thrown, had wrestled on the ground with Andy, and done far more running than he generally preferred. He rolled out of his bed with a groan, noting on the digital clock beside the bed that he’d actually slept until 8:43.  


His gaze travelled, and he realized that Tomas’s bed was empty. For a moment he was alarmed, until he recalled that Tomas was probably out on his run.  


Sure enough, while Marcus was brushing his teeth he heard the door open and stuck his head out to see Tomas in his ratty old sweats, glowing with sweat and looking disgustingly hale for a man who had been nearly comatose with exhaustion.

“What?” Tomas asked.  


Marcus spat and rinsed and answered, “Last night you were a mess and now look at you. I hate the young.”  


“If it makes you feel better, my knee does ache a little.”  


“Please, don’t humour me.” Marcus packed up his toiletries, clearing them off the sink ledge. It looked like Tomas had already collected his. “Seriously… how do you feel?”  


Tomas looked like he was performing an internal scan. “Right now… okay. I always feel good after a run.”  


Marcus took up his bible and his mobile. He saw that Mouse had texted: PANCAKES. NOW. “Mouse wants breakfast,” he said.  


“Yes, I saw her outside.”  


“Have a quick shower and be out on the sidewalk in ten.”  


“Si, signor,” Tomas assented.  


They went to a nearby IHOP and Marcus watched in disbelief as Tomas demolished a stack of blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon. He used a fork and knife to cut his bacon, but not before he swirled the bacon around in his leftover syrup. For once, Marcus and Mouse were entirely in sync; she was shaking her head and frowning.  


Tomas looked up, saw their expressions. “It is very delicious this way,” he told them.  


“I’ll take your word for it,” Mouse said.  


“Have you never had bacon maple ice cream? There is a place in Chicago…” He trailed off, perhaps remembering. Marcus knew that he missed his family terribly, although he didn’t talk a lot about it.  


“I’m not sure I approve,” Marcus said.  


“We priests must take our pleasures where we can,” Tomas said, and then turned a delightful shade of embarrassed young penitent.  


But Marcus grinned. “Very true,” he returned. “And I am no longer a priest, so I think I should perhaps make the most of that.”  


The waitress, a cheerful middle-aged lady with dyed red hair, came by and topped up Tomas’s coffee without being asked, then winked at him before walking away.  


Mouse laughed outright at the expression on Marcus’s face. “No coffee for us, I guess!”  


Tomas whispered, “She flirted with me.”  


“Well, Tomas,” Marcus said, “Seducing a priest is a pretty big coup in this world. You want less attention, you should probably stop wearing the uniform.”  


Tomas looked like he might die of embarrassment.  


“You know,” Mouse put in, “that’s not a bad idea. In all seriousness. If we’re being hunted, the less attention we attract, the better. And you’re already memorable enough,” she added, nodding her head in Tomas’s direction.  


“How do you mean?”  


“Marcus, help me out here.”  


Tomas looked at Marcus, genuinely confused. “Is it my accent?”  


Some people would have thought that Tomas was playing coy but Marcus knew better. After spending six months in close proximity to Tomas, he knew that Tomas was genuinely unaware of his own beauty. He did not think himself ugly, and would accept the term “handsome”, but he did not see the stares or hungry looks, or if he did, he put it down to people being uncomfortable around his collar. His lack of vanity only made him more appealing.  


And for all of his physical gifts, they were nothing to his spiritual beauty. Tomas thought that God had gifted him with visions but Marcus knew that it was Tomas himself who was a gift, one that had been given into Marcus’s care. He had been trying his best, since the moment he met, but he was all too aware that he himself was unclean and that he was the stain that marked Tomas. The demons knew it too.  


“Yes, Tomas,” he said, deadpan. “It’s your accent. That, with the collar, make it hard for people not to notice you. And you’re—young, for a priest. People expect priests to be old and warty.”  


“Wart-y?”  


“Having warts.”  


“I am not sure what that word means.”  


“It’s like a blotch on the skin—you know, it’s like—hell, it’s a wart!” Marcus felt quite certain that Tomas had never had such a thing mar his perfection. “Look it up.”  


Tomas shook his head. “But old— _war_ -ty priests must start out as young and—and less _war_ -ty priests.”  


“That is true.”  


“This conversation is ridiculous,” Mouse said.  


“That is also true.”  


“Also I am not that young,” Tomas mused, still puzzling over the waitress’s attention.  


“Sure,” Marcus agreed.  


“I’m going to the restroom.”  


“All right. Good plan.”  


“And then we are going to find Bennett.”  


Mouse and Marcus shared a look. Once Tomas was out of earshot, Marcus said, “We are going to tell him, yeah?”  


“Of course. Soon as he gets back.”  


Ten minutes later, they had paid the bill and Marcus wondered what the hell Tomas was doing in the bathroom. Some instinct told him he had better check in. He opened the door and called, “Tomas?”  


There was no answer.  


Feeling ridiculous, he stepped in and said again, “Tomas? You in here?” He bent down to look for feet in either of the two stalls. There was no one. He went out to the lobby, visually scanned the restaurant. Then he stepped outside, where Mouse was waiting.  


“He’s not in there. Do you see him?”  


“No.”  


“Where could he have gone?” They were both looking around the parking lot, towards the street.  


A dark sedan pulled to a stop in front of them and two men got out. Marcus knew immediately that this was bad news.  


“Marcus Keane?”  


“Who wants to know?”  


The man on the other side of the car came around and pulled out a badge. “I’m Detective Dorset with the Seattle Police. I’m assigned to the file on Andy Kim. We have some additional questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind coming down to the station.”  


Whenever he got around cops—or any authority, really—Marcus’s inner punk came out. “I do mind, actually,” he said. “Is it really necessary?”  


“I’m afraid it is. Will you come with us, please?”  


This was not good at all. They must have run the prints on the gun and found his. He was in several databases, he knew that. He wasn’t so sure about Mouse.  


Mouse was standing beside him looking completely blank and unconcerned despite the fact that it had been her gun.  


“All right,” he said. He gave Mouse a look, not needed to say the words.  


_Find Tomas._  


She nodded.  


He got in the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot is thickening, and Tomas is in a pickle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all in Tomas's perspective. The next one will be all Marcus, I promise. I like to trade off perspectives, and sometimes I alternate entire chapters like this.

                “Father?"

                It was the red-headed waitress who had winked at him, waiting right outside the restroom.  Waiting for him.  He wished he hadn’t put on his priest’s gear that morning; in fact, he didn’t know why he’d done it. 

                Or—oh, _Dios_ , she wasn’t going to hit on him now, was she?  She had winked at him earlier but she could not possibly think… maybe she thought he was Anglican or United Church and was looking for a serious date, as unlikely as it seemed.  Never mind that she was old enough to be his mother.

                “Yes?” he said with all the professional politeness he could muster.

                “I know this is very rude of me, Father, but I’m desperate.”  She stepped in close and lowered her voice to a confessional whisper.  “Can we go outside for a minute and I’ll explain?”

                It was uncommon but it happened:  A random person asking him for a quick spiritual fix, in the same way that people would approach doctors at cocktail parties and ask them to diagnose a collection of symptoms on the spot.

                Officially he could do nothing for her.  He was not under the authority of any parish or bishop.  According to church doctrine, God’s grace flowed down into Peter’s representative on earth, the Pope, and thence into his anointed bishops, and then into duly appointed priests who spoke with ecclesiastical authority.  Collar or no, Tomas was now detached from that network of grace and could not absolve her of her sins.

                But he did not necessarily believe strictly in that doctrine.  He was confident that grace could be received freely, by God’s will.  Wasn’t that the very definition of grace?  And surely, as exorcists, they were accustomed to feeling like God was with them, whether or not the exorcism was authorized by a bishop?  God had brought him to Marcus through a dream-vision, not via his superiors, and if he had obeyed the directions of his bishop in the Rance situation, Casey would likely now be dead, or worse.

                In any case, this woman clearly needed something from him, and he liked to help people.  It was why he had become a priest, after all.

                “Okay,” he said. 

                She smiled. It was an unexpectedly winsome smile, and he smiled back.  “Thank you, Father,” she said.  “Thank you so much.”

                He followed her outside, to a nondescript sedan in the parking lot that she identified as hers.  Standing at the foot of the car, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

                “Okay, you see…I’m a recovering addict.  I’m doing the steps and I’ve… I know I have no power, that it is all in God’s hands.  But I’m having a very difficult morning, you don’t want to hear the details.  I’m just really afraid I’m about to give in.  Relapse.  I think… if you would pray with me a little it would help.”

                “Oh,” he said.  “Oh, yes.  Of course.”

                “Could we…in my car?”

                He felt a momentary hesitation—but it was understandable.  Prayer could be a very private thing, and people didn’t generally stand about in public with priests praying over them.

                “Yes,” he agreed.  She gestured that he should get in on the passenger’s side, which he did.  As she settled in, he mentally ran through a repertoire of prayers and liturgies.   “Would you like to—?” he started to say.

                Horror jolted through him as he looked up into her face.  She was dead.  Her face and hands were grey-green, decaying skin flaking off in large pieces.  Her eyes were lifeless, the irises drained of colour.  Fluids pooled around her eyes, ears, nose and mouth.   Her rotting teeth, set in a rictus of black gums, were bared in a terrible grin. 

                “What is it, Father?” she said, with apparent confusion.

                “ _Salvame_ …” He reached blindly for the door handle. 

                A screaming whiteness, something like the noise of his vision the day before, smashed down on him… similar yet very different, and wrong, so wrong, like a fist mashing all the keys on a piano all at once, like a thousand clanging sirens, each in a different key.  He had no option but to lose consciousness.

 

 

*****

 

 

                Then, there was a male voice, deeply concerned:   “Look what you did!” 

                “We brought him to you.” The person answering did not sound like they cared terribly about whatever they might have done or what side effects it might have caused.

                “But how hard did you hit him?”

                “We did not hit him.”

                “Where did this blood come from then?”

                There was no answer.

                Tomas tried to open his eyes.  They seemed to be crusted shut, and the mere attempt at movement caused agony to spike through his skull.  He moaned. 

                “You’re awake.”  The stranger stated the obvious with oily solicitude.  “I am so sorry they hurt you.  You—bring me a cold cloth!”

                He _had_ to get his eyes open.  He brought his hands up to rub at them, only to have a powerful grip take his wrists and force them down.  He tried to fight but his limbs had all the strength of overcooked _frijoles_. 

                “Shh, it’s okay.  No one’s going to hurt you.  Here, let me.” 

                Something touched his face and he flinched from it. 

                “I’m just helping you, it’s okay.  Stay still.” 

                Cool and wet, and now that he let it happen, it did feel amazing.  A moment later, the crust seemed to be gone.  He could get a glimpse of this threatening new world that he’d woken to, but this time he did not allow himself to make a sound. 

                He was in a large, luxurious bedroom, lying on the bed.  The curtains were open, emitting a late afternoon light.  He’d lost the entire day….assuming that it had only been the one. 

                But all of that had to take second priority to the people around him, the ones who must have brought him here.  As a child from a poor neighbourhood, he instantly recognized that the man tending to him had money, and a lot of it; it was apparent in everything about him, from his clothes to his haircut.  His complexion was the artificial bronze of a person who spent time regularly in a tanning bed, paired with a thick coif of unnaturally pure yellow hair.  The face was soft and dissipated, in an indeterminate zone somewhere between fifty and seventy.  The mouth was pursed in a perpetual pout.  It was clear that this man had once been almost handsome and that he was fighting his maturity tooth and claw.   

                There were two men standing several feet away, on either side of the door, and they were—

                Oh, _dios_ , they were—they were dead, dead like Sara. 

                Well, not exactly as Sara had been, but even so Tomas jolted upright upon seeing them and attempted an uncoordinated backwards scramble.  It was an entirely involuntary attempt at escape from something horrible, unfiltered by reason.  He had nowhere to go, after all.

                “Oh, no…stay still, please, or you’ll hurt yourself!”

                Tomas remained where he was, pressed against the headboard and the pillows.  He put his knees up as a barrer between himself and the rest of everything, breathing hard, squeezing his eyes shut.  He sent up a rapid plea for protection to God. 

                When he checked again, they were living men, their faces and bodies wearing the neutral expressions and neutral suits of lackeys.

                “ _Que es esto_ …?” Tomas breathed.  He clenched, two-fisted, at the sumptuous fabric of the bed, and tried not to have a meltdown.  Or _more_ of a meltdown.  “What is happening?”

                “A good question.”  The well-dressed man pursued Tomas with his cloth.  Without asking, he moved closer and reached up to stroke it over Tomas’s forehead and cheeks.  His eyes followed everywhere the cloth touched, never meeting Tomas’s eyes.  Astonished, Tomas let him do it a few times before twitching away.     

                “Wh-where is she?” he demanded.

                “Who?”

                “The waitress… Sara.”  Tomas nearly gagged when his brain summoned up the image of the dead Sara in the car.  What could it have meant, if not that Sara was possessed?  And what was the point of seeing that, if indeed it was a vision from God?  Why would God make him see things like that… or all the dead children piled in the truck?  If these were warnings of some sort, they had come way too late to be helpful to anyone. 

                Why was God making all this happen?  Or was He just _letting_ it happen?

                “Oh, the waitress.” 

                “She was…possessed…?” 

                Vaguely aware that he was just mumbling questions without full control of his mouth, Tomas only half-wondered if this man might not know or believe in demons, but the stranger didn’t even pause before answering.  “Not at all, sweetheart, not at all.”  He finally took his hand and the cloth away from Tomas’s face.  “I will have some clean clothes brought for you,” he said.  “I’m afraid you have blood all over your shirt…and your collar.”

                The weight of Things Not Known was overwhelming.  Aside from the obvious—like where he was or what the fuck was happening, or why—he had no idea where Marcus and Mouse were, and if they were okay.  Facing down demons was relatively less terrifying because he knew the rules. He knew where he stood with them.  This was something else. 

                “You have questions,” the man said, gently.

                “Who are you?”

                “My name is Stephen Corinth, and you are Father Tomas Ortega.”

                Tomas examined the man’s face, looking for signs of possession.  He did not see any, but that meant nothing as he well knew. 

                “No,” said Corinth.  “I am not possessed, nor do I have any desire to be.  I know that you encountered the Friars of Ascension in Chicago and yes, there are people like that where I am from too.  A lot of them, in fact, but I am not one of them.”  He smiled, showing a set of gleaming, bleached teeth.  “Why don’t you get cleaned up and changed and join me downstairs and I will answer your questions.”

                Corinth rose and, somewhat surprisingly, ordered the two goons to follow him out.

                Tomas took a moment to sit and master his headache—and his fears.  The worst of them was that something had happened to Marcus, but he didn’t dare ask.  If they knew who Tomas was, chances were good they knew who Marcus was too, but he couldn’t take the risk of revealing anything.  Marcus and Mouse would be looking for him and Mouse had already found him once, tucked in a closet—in a house on an island, no less, not that he had any idea how she had done that.  If he could get to a phone—

                He had no number to call.  They only used burners now and, like most people accustomed to cell phones, Tomas programmed numbers into his contacts and never bothered to learn them.  He knew only Olivia’s number by heart and calling her was out of the question.

                Slowly, Tomas got himself upright and went to the window.  He had been taken to a mansion, it seemed.  He had little knowledge of architectural styles; he only recognized that the house was old, stately and well beyond anything of his experience.  It was the sort of thing that would have been commonplace for the Maria Walters of the world.  It was dusk and he was on a second or third floor.  Looking out, he saw no other lights other than those marking entry to the house’s driveway.  He must be away from the city.  For all he knew, he could have been in another country, but he didn’t think so. 

                He went into the _en suite_ bathroom and examined himself in the mirror.  Stephen Corinth had not lied.  The blood did not show too terribly against the black shirt but it was splotched all over his collar.  His eyes were sunken in hollows, his mouth tight with pain.  Running his hands over his skull, he found no evidence of any wounds.  He was fairly sure that he had been subject to a spiritual, not physical, attack.  If they could do this to him at a moment’s notice, he was in serious trouble.  There seemed to be no defense against it.

                He clasped his hands, lowered his head, and whispered, “Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid.  The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation.”

                The words calmed his heart a bit.  God had to be with him.  Perhaps he didn’t understand it, but if this was God’s plan for him, he need not fear it.

                Theologically speaking.

                He washed his face with warm water and dabbed helplessly at the spots on his collar.  When he went back into the bedroom, he saw that a set of clothes had been laid out for him.  He hadn’t heard anyone coming and going.  He had no desire to wear the clothes of his enemy, and especially did not wish to relinquish his priest’s garb.  It was the only armor he had right now.  They had even taken his shoes at some point.  In one easy move, they made it ten times harder for him to run.  He left the bedroom in stocking feet.

                On the main floor, he encountered one of the goons from before, who pointed at a closed door with warm, yellow light spilling from the crack at the bottom.  He walked over and knocked. 

                “Enter.”

                It was a library-office, as decadently furnished as the bedroom had been.  The walls were entirely lined with bookshelves in a dark mahogany, filled with books with matching spines.  There was an enormous desk, elaborately carved and polished, near one wall. In the centre of the room was a set of leather couches and chairs, all matching, in a buttery tan shade.  There was not one item in the room that did not speak of money.

                Stephen Corinth was standing behind the desk when Tomas walked in.  “Come in, come in, my boy!”  He frowned elaborately.  “You did not change into the clothes I sent up.”

                “No,” Tomas replied. 

                “May I ask why not?”

                There seemed no point in answering that.

                Corinth shook his head.  He gestured to the cluster of furniture.  “Have a seat.”

                Tomas took a chair, hoping that his relief at sitting wasn’t too obvious.  The ache in his head had somehow spread throughout his entire body. 

                It was then he realized that there was another person in the room, seated in the chair across from him.  It was a man, dressed the cassock and everyday regalia of an archbishop, his legs crossed and hands folded neatly.  He turned to meet Tomas’s eyes, and Tomas saw that a third pupil was showing, giving him the slightly skewed look that was unmistakable.  The pupil was bright yellow-orange. 

                Tomas groped for a crucifix and realized that he had none. 

                The man-demon smiled, and his smile was devastating.  Unlike Stephen Corinth, this man was one of the most naturally beautiful people Tomas had ever seen.  Although he must have been in his sixties, he still had the blond, cherubic looks of a choir boy, combined with the charisma of a 1920s silent film star.

                “I banish you, unclean spirit,” Tomas whispered.  He wasn’t sure why he said it, since at that moment that he did not seriously believe he could banish anything.

                “How delicious!”  The demon fell to laughter like silvery water.  Even his voice was unusually appealing.  “Some people call me Archbishop David O’Neal…but you can call me Samyaza.”

                “ _Samyaza_ …” Tomas searched his memory.  “Samyaza, or Semihazah, leader of the fallen watcher angels in the Book of Enoch.”

                “Very _good_ ,” the fallen angel purred.  He had resumed his human pretense, but he seemed to glow with otherworldly allure.  “You have been studying your discipline, haven’t you?  I’ll bet that hoary old goat Marcus Keane _loves_ drilling you on the names of the old ones, among other things.”

                It wasn’t the first time a demon had tried to insinuate something like that about his relationship with Marcus.  Tomas didn’t react.

                “And you?” he said to Stephen Corinth.  “What is your real name?”

                “I told you, I am not possessed, or integrated,” Corinth said.  “Just a regular old sinner.  I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but there are many people who choose to collude with demons.”

                “Like Sara?”

                “Sara the waitress?  Not exactly.”

                Samyaza said, “We demons can always see into the hearts of sinners… the greater the sinner, the clearer we see them.  And Sara is quite the sinner.”

                “Physical desire is perfectly natural,” Tomas said.  “It’s not a sin.”

                “Goodness, but you are a treasure,” Samyaza crooned.  “What would dear Saint Augustine have to say to that?”

                Tomas frowned at him.  “Are we really going to have a theological discussion now?”

                “I find it quite charming that you pick and choose which church doctrines you adhere to.”

                “Most priests do,” Tomas replied. 

                “Isn’t that the truth?”  Samyaza said this with a sparkle in his eye.  He could have been a church politician at a cocktail party, and it was easy to see how the man David O’Neal could have risen to the position of Archbishop.  

                Tomas bit his tongue.  He didn’t need to be giving this creature ammunition. 

                “Sara,” Corinth said, going over to a sidebar and pouring himself a drink, “is not a sinner because she desired you, Tomas.  It is what she desired to do _to_ you.  I won’t traumatize you with the details.  Would you like a drink of something?”

                “No, thank you,” Tomas said, although he was very thirsty.

                “Not even a glass of water?” Samyaza asked him.  No doubt he knew everything that Tomas was thinking, and Tomas wondered whether it was even worth the effort of trying to hide things.

                “So you just happened to have a sinner who was a waitress at the IHOP that we just happened to go to?” Tomas puzzled out loud.

                “It was no coincidence, Tomas.”  In Samyaza’s mouth, his name sounded like butter spread on chocolate.  “We fallen angels have a particular affinity for human sin.  We’re like cats who see the world in terms of prey and other hunters—with humans as the prey.  The more they sin, the stronger they smell to us.  Now, I can’t just see what every sinner sees, that would make me pretty omniscient now, wouldn’t it!”  Samyaza laughed brightly.  “But you take someone like your waitress, a whole bunch of these someones whose souls are nearly destroyed by the damage done to them.  Those are people I can use if I wish.”

                Corinth poured and brought him a glass of what certainly appeared to be plain iced water, then sat himself on one of the couches near Tomas.   It seemed unlikely they were trying to drug or poison him.  And why would they, when they could simply overpower him whenever they wanted?  He took a hesitant sip.  It tasted normal.

                “I assure you,” Corinth said, “It’s perfectly safe.”

                Tomas took a longer gulp, cherishing the sensation of cold-wet on his parched tongue. 

                And then, on a moment of quick inspiration, he silently said the words of blessing over the water, hoping that it would be sufficient to make it holy.  Catholic doctrine would probably say otherwise but he wasn’t sure.  It was worth a try.

                “Of course,” Samyaza went on.  “I had to know to look for you.  We knew you and Marcus Keane were in the area—and yes, we know about Marcus so you don’t have to be cagey about him.”

                _Fuck_. 

                “In fact,” the demon added.  “We’ve taken the liberty of securing him, to ensure your good behaviour.”

                Tomas felt the world drop out from underneath him.  “ _Securing_ him?”

                “We are everywhere, Tomas.  Government, the church… the justice system.  Shortly after you were led astray by Sara, a couple of police officers picked up Marcus on the pretext of questioning him.  He is now in a very safe place as our guest.  He will be perfectly comfortable.  He will have a warm place to sleep and plenty to eat, which is a lot more generous than any of my brethren would ever choose to be to Marcus Keane.  We will let him listen to his ancient cassette tapes and scribble in his bible.  No one will harm him.  As long as you stay here with me and Stephen and you listen with an open mind.”

                “And do what?” Tomas demanded.  His voice shook with the despair that he couldn’t quite hide. “Just so you know, I will never allow myself to be taken by a demon.”

                “Oh,” Samyaza said.  “But you have already offered yourself more than once, haven’t you?”

                “God gave me this skill so I could help save people,” Tomas argued, and even as he did he knew he was making a mistake in engaging in the argument.

                The demon returned smoothly, “And you let yourself be taken every time you open your mind.  You’re like that girl in high school who can’t keep her legs closed.”  He smiled his devastating smile.

                “What do you _want_?”

                Samyaza said in tones of velvet, “Oh, so many things.  I want so many things.  But to answer your specific question… We have an offer for you.  You are not required to say yes.  Nothing will happen to Marcus if you refuse.”

                Tomas said bitterly, “But you won’t let me leave.”

                “That is correct.”

                Corinth took that moment to interject.  “You stay here with me and Samyaza, and do some exorcising for us, and in return he will teach you how to fully use your gift.”

                Tomas stared at him.  “You want me to exorcise demons.  For you.”

                “Poor boy, so confused.”  Stephen Corinth reached over and took the glass of water from Tomas’s numb hand, setting it on the table.  “That is antique glass, sweetheart.  Let’s not break it.”

                “I don’t understand,” Tomas said.  There didn’t seem any point to disguising it.  “What is happening?”

                He did know one thing.  Samyaza was manipulating him, because he was a demon and that was what demons did.  And yet it was impossible not to listen to him.  It was the voice, so perfectly crafted, like honey dripped in his ears.  It said:  “I can help you to understand, Eloi.”

                The name _Eloi_ shot through Tomas.  In his culture, it meant _chosen_. 

                “Don’t call me that.”

                “It is what you believe, is it not?”

 _You hate it.  You hate the fact that He chose me and not you_.  He had said those very words to Marcus less than a week ago.

                “I…didn’t mean…” he started, and told himself to shut the fuck up.

                “You are special, Tomas.  God could have given this gift to anyone.  He could have given it to Marcus but he didn’t.  Why do you suppose that is?”

                Tomas shook his head. 

                “You have a gift that is very rare.  You are—forgive the metaphor—like a multichannel spiritual receiver.  Have you had dreams that seem to speak to you?  Sometimes while you are awake?”

                He was shaking, but he was still _listening_. 

                “Sometimes you see things out of nowhere, images that come and go and seem to be warnings?”

                “Stop.”

                “You can battle demons inside your head, which means demons can also manipulate and control you.  What if I could show you how to avoid that manipulation?  What if you could banish them with a single thought?  What if you were not only a receiver…but an amplifier?”

                The words had begun to sound like a song, a spell.  All demons had this power, but in Samyaza it was the strongest Tomas had ever known.  He closed his eyes and trembled and somehow, eventually, managed to look up and say, “And God meant for me to come to you to learn how to use this gift?  I don’t think so.”

                “No, God meant for you to stumble around and make mistakes out of ignorance.  That’s how God likes to do things—to leave people wondering and then demand their absolute, unquestioning faith.  But we angels are happy to explain things.  To teach.  You might remember, if you have read the Book of Enoch, that it was myself and a number of other angels who taught human beings all manner of important knowledge.”

                “And you were cast down for it,” Tomas muttered.

                “Because, unlike most five-year-old children, God does not know how to share.  These were things necessary for human culture to thrive. We angels would share our power with human beings, is that such a terrible thing?  And for that we were punished.”

                “You were punished for disobedience.  You despise human beings.  What do you want if not hell on earth?  You do not build, you destroy and tear things down.”

                “You confuse me with some of my brethren.”

                “What?”

                “There are different factions of demons, Tomas,” Stephen Corinth interrupted.  Samyaza cast an annoyed look at him but let him continue.  “There are many who want nothing but to defile and destroy everything good about humanity.  You are correct about that.  They’re the ones that you exorcise.  But there are others who have given humanity all the gifts they possess.  They would ally with us and take ownership of this world.”

                “You mean take it from God.”

                Samyaza shrugged.  “What has God done with it?  What makes him so deserving?  He comes and goes as he pleases, leaves people to suffer, or others—like you—to struggle to understand him and their calling.  He seems to think that being mysterious will make people love him more but he confuses love with dependence.”

                Corinth chimed back in, “Samyaza is the leader of one great faction of angels.  He is getting ready to push all the others aside.”

                “And he just happens to live in Seattle—“

                “No, our home is Detroit.  This is just one of many houses that I own.  Samyaza, or I should say, David O’Neal, is the Archbishop of Detroit.”

                Samyaza said, and made it sound like a blessing, “We came here looking for you, Tomas, because we knew you were here.”

                 “ _How_?”

                “As I said… people who are broken, who are ill, who are addicted…we have always been able to act through them.  Like the priests at St. Aquinas, or John Harplin.  Consider it good luck if you must.  Or consider it God’s will.  Everything is according to his plan, is it not?”

                Tomas stared at this simulation, this mockery of a bishop, his mind spinning.

                “You are a demon…yet you want me to exorcise demons.”

                “Because they are my enemy.  You will get rid of them.”

                “You could just kill them.”

                “For shame, Father Tomas.  Whatever happened to loving thy neighbour?  Or the commandments, for that matter?”

                Tomas flushed.  “I mean why would _you_ bother with exorcising demons to get them out of the way?  _You_ don’t care about God’s commandments.”

                “You are right about that, but I want those bodies for myself.  These are people in positions of high authority.  If I kill them, then I lose that opportunity.  Once you free them, then I can summon my own host to impregnate them.”

                “If you are talking about exorcising integrated demons… that’s impossible.”

                “You and I both know that’s a lie, Tomas.  You exorcised an integrated demon before, and you can do it again.  Particularly once we have strengthened your gift.  And when you are done, you can move on and use that power to save more souls.”

                “You…would let me go?  You would let Marcus…?”

                Samyaza smiled his beatific smile like he knew some important corner had been turned.  “Who can say what the future holds?  You are God’s chosen and if God wishes for you to have your freedom, then you shall have it.  Oh, I know that you are going to be plotting every minute of every day to get away.  The odds are against me.  Or… you could stay here and learn everything I have to teach so you can use it to exorcise me.”

                “You would teach me…knowing I might use it against you?”

                Samyaza shrugged.  Clearly, he did not think Tomas was much of a threat to him.  For the moment, Tomas was inclined to agree. 

                All he could do, all he was left with, was to try to imagine what Marcus would do in this situation.  One thing Marcus had been especially invested in teaching him over the past six months was how to be less—Marcus would say _gullible_.  Marcus had a lifetime’s experience in resisting the irresistible… and being generally suspicious of any and all appearances of good will.  Sometimes those well-worn grooves in his personality led him to respond to things in impractical ways, getting stubborn and difficult when he didn’t have to be.  But that Marcus attitude would undoubtedly have been a help to Tomas at this moment.  Tomas could almost smile at the image of Marcus in his current position.  Marcus would just make himself a living expression of the middle finger.  No reason or common sense required.  All consequences placed at God’s door. 

                “You can’t think that I would agree to this,” Tomas said, trying out the Path of Marcus.

                “I think that you cannot help yourself.  It’s your curse, your particular complex. You can’t resist a chance to sacrifice yourself if it means you can save some other poor soul.  I’m giving you a rare opportunity, Father Ortega.  And before you try to be loyal to your teacher and say no, let me show you something which I think may help to make up your mind.”

                The door opened, upon some wordless signal.  Three men came in.  Two were the suited goons who had accompanied Tomas earlier, and between them was another man, wearing thick chains at the wrists, ankles and neck.  Other than that, all he wore was a hospital gown.  His head was hanging as he came in but even before he lifted it, Tomas knew that it was Bennett.

                Samyaza purred, “Look what I have brought you, Father Tomas.”

                Bennett’s eyes blazed with profane malice.  His pupils were giant, black coins, and even as Tomas searched, he saw a third, dark gold pupil roll up into place. 

                “ _Eli Eli lema sabachtani._ My god, my god, why have you forsaken me.”The words came from the vicinity of Bennett’s mouth, although it never moved…other than to stretch into a terrible, mocking smile.

                “Christ have mercy,” Tomas whispered.  He was on his feet because it didn’t seem right to be sitting, but he didn’t move forward.  He was an exorcist, yes, but at his moment he was unable to do anything but stand there.

                “Its name is Asag,” Samyaza said.  He remained comfortably seated, very much unconcerned. “It was summoned into this world through some petty human ritual and found its way into this priest while he was unconscious.  Then, after a little bit of fun with some nurses’ heads, it came here to inform me that he was going to be taking charge of _my_ company of demons.  It actually believed that it had the power to dictate to _me_.  It’s really little more than a rodent, this one.”

                “And you want me to exorcise him,” Tomas said.  

                “I want you to _exterminate_ it.” The beautiful, boyish face twisted into a truly sadistic smirk, like a small child who had stolen a toy and deliberately broken it.  “Could there be a better practice case for you to start on?”

                “Just so he can be possessed again.”

                “Yes,” Samyaza agreed.  “But you know that the possessed must invite the demon in for integration to happen.  You will have a chance to intervene.”

                “You could stop me from doing anything to help him.”

                “I promise you that I won’t.”

                “Even if I believed you…why would you do that?”

                “Maybe I enjoy the game.  Or maybe I want to test God and see if you really are his instrument.  It should be enough for you that you are given the chance to save souls.  The rest is up to Him.  God has brought you here, has he not?  This is where he wants you.  You need only accept.”

                “This is insane…no, I cannot.”

                “Tomas…”  Samyaza spoke with infinite gentleness.  “It is not too late for Bennett.  You are an exorcist, aren’t you?  You have to at least try.”

                The alien-demon voice that emerged from Bennett’s mouth was a particular atrocity.  Bennett was always so contained, so careful.  He was not a man who would ever let himself be vulnerable in front of another person.  “He lies, of course.  You know that he lies.  You will not succeed.  You may as well let them kill you, Tomas.”

                “We have no intention of killing Tomas,” Corinth said, sounding genuinely horrified.

                “Oh, but you would like to do worse to him, wouldn’t you?”  The beast resumed the mien of Bennett.  “Father Tomas, I once told another demon that you would never be tempted.  You would not prove me wrong, I hope.”

                Samyaza said nothing, regarding Tomas with his gentle eyes.

                “You know me,” Bennett-Asag said.  “You know I would rather die than be this.  Just let me be, and when the time comes, you can kill me.  Or if that makes you too uncomfortable, our dear friend Mouse can do the job.  It is what Bennett would want, I promise you.”

                “Or I can offer myself in his place,” Tomas said.

                Bennett-Asag rolled his eyes.  “Your answer to everything!  What makes you think yourself such a prize that no demon can resist you?  I do not want you, Tomas.  I am quite content here, and I will be very content at the head of the Office of Exorcism.”

                Tomas had come to a point where he felt like he must either run or be damned.  His heart raced.  Standing there nearly paralyzed, he fought against several, equally mad urges.  Not one thing he wanted to do seemed like the right thing to do, or was even possible.

                “Tomas?” said Corinth.  “You’re looking a bit off.”

                “Aw,” said Bennett-Asag in a syrupy voice.  “Is wittle Tomas bwoken?”

                Samyaza waved in Bennett-Asag’s direction.  “All right, I think we’re done for now.  Take him back down.”

                “Tomas!”  Bennett-Asag cried, switching gears suddenly.  He sounded desperate in a way that he never had in the brief time Tomas had known him.  He had always been a figure in the distance, someone Marcus talked to, forbidding and aloof, but it had also been clear that he and Marcus had a bond.  For that reason alone, Tomas owed him something.  “Don’t listen to this beast!  You must try and save yourself!  Leave me to my fate!”

                Then he burst into a laughter that shook the room and sent objects flying.  The door slammed, and Tomas heard Bennett’s howls and screams receding into the distance.   

                Samyaza was profoundly unconcerned.  He gazed at Tomas with all the innocence of a kitten that had been found in a puddle of cream.  “So?” he inquired.

                “I cast you out,” Tomas ground out.  He knew that it would not work, but it was a necessary gesture.  “Unclean spirit.  Son of the morning, banished from grace, you are forgiven.”

                Samyaza smiled, wide and delighted.  The smile was like a sharp hook, finding its way into Tomas’s brain and forcing him to a stuttering stop.  All of a sudden he was entirely without words.

                “Do you think you have the right to forgive me?” Samyaza asked.  “You have pity for _me_?”

                ““Whosoever dwells in the shelter of the most high…”  _God_ , he couldn’t remember what came next, and he’d known the psalm by heart since he was fourteen. 

                “Please.  Don’t stop on my account.”

                “Whosoever dwells…in the shelter… whosoeverdwellsintheshelterof… themosthigh…will rest in the shadow of the Almighty!  I will say of the lord… I will say of the lord…"   Tomas gave up on the words.  He grabbed the glass he had surreptitiously blessed and threw the water in Samyaza’s face. 

                He truly had no idea if it would work or not, and was amazed when Samyaza’s skin began to steam and he bared his teeth in a demonic growl.  Other than that, however, it did not appear to harm him.  

                “He is my refugee and my fortress, my god in whom I trust,” Samyaza said in a gutteral, otherworldly voice.

                The antique glass that Corinth had tried to protect shattered in Tomas’s hands and madness exploded in his mind and his mouth.  He collapsed onto the floor, babbling helplessly.  He heard noises coming from him, sounds that he would not be able to call words as he clawed at the carpet.  It was a deliberate, cruel display of another being’s power over him, an overtaking of his will as pointed as it was pointless.

_He is in his office again, surrounded by the homeless, the derelict, the fallen.  The people he used to see on the streets in Chicago.  John Harplin is again among them, as are the two lackeys in Corinth’s house.  And Sara.  They are all weeping black-green bile from their eyes and mouths.  Their eyes are white._

_Can you hear the angels?  Can you hear them singing?_

_Can you hear the angels singing?_

_Can you hear them?_

                After some time, he realized that he was back to himself.  He managed to raise his head slightly and found himself looking at the demon’s feet.  There was drool sliding down his chin, tears and snot dripping from his nose.  He wiped at his face and sobbed out loud.  He was wet and sticky all over.  He had never felt so degraded.

                “Was that really necessary?” asked Corinth quietly, somewhere above and behind him.

                “He needs to learn,” Samayaza replied in human words, but Tomas heard in another language entirely:  _You are mine.  I will take you and use you however I like, whenever I like.  Every moment that you continue in control of your own will is at my pleasure._

                “Can you leave me alone with him?  Let me talk to him.”

                  After a while, someone lifted him and suddenly he was being cradled against a hard chest and a silk shirt.  The world spun, and for a time Tomas had no idea what was happening around him.  “There, there…” said the man.  Stephen Corinth.  The man’s aftershave was nauseatingly thick.  “Poor boy.  Poor thing.”

                Tomas shoved the man away.  “ _Stop_ it.”  He choked frantically on tears while wiping his moist face, smearing his fluids on the back of his hand and the sleeve of the black jacket he had worn while hearing confessions and blessing babies.  He pushed himself in an inelegant scramble until he was pressed back against one of the chairs.  

                He should—get to his feet, run away, do something—at least get up—get to his feet—

                He buried his face in his knees, weaved his hands up into his hair, fisting at his temples.  He groped for some prayer, some words of self-comfort.  His mind was empty.

                “Can I help?”

                “No,” Tomas said to his knees.

                “Are you sure?  I’ll bet you feel better after you’ve cleaned up.”

                Numb with terror and confusion and the horror of what had just happened to him, Tomas let himself be led back to the bedroom in which this nightmare had begun.  Corinth hovered near him the entire way, seemingly prepared to pounce in case Tomas lost his feet or his direction.  It was slow, but Tomas made it.   

                He stood in the centre of the room for a time, staring.  There didn’t seem to be any thoughts in him.  He recognized, distantly, that he was in shock. 

                The episode that followed, although more mundane, was almost as humiliating.  Tomas had to allow Stephen Corinth to help him to undress, peeling off clothes that were now stained with blood, saliva, bile, sweat, piss, refusing to let him do anything himself.  The man would not leave him alone.  There was no lock on the bathroom door, and Tomas was forced to let this man, this stranger, handle his naked self.  He did not even like to be naked in front of his own family. 

                By the time Tomas got out of the shower, his clothes were gone and he had no choice but to wear the things that had been provided for him.  There was a crisp shirt in a colour somewhere between blue and green.  The pants fit every curve of his body with just the right amount of give, beautifully tailored.  The fact that the clothes fit him perfectly, as though they had somehow been able to take his measurements ahead of time, as though they had been expecting him here and made provision for him in this way, sent a new chill of terror through him.

                “Look at you!” Stephen Corinth beamed.  “You should be in a catalogue.  Now that we know those fit, I have some other things I can have sent up—“

                “Who are you?” Tomas burst out.  “Why are you—“  he choked—“doing this?”

                He knew, in a way, what to expect of demons.  Even Samyaza, who had just done something to him that he had never anticipated and didn’t understand.  Demons were built for evil.  They did what they did and did not require explanation or justification. 

                Humans were another story.  Tomas believed completely in what he had told Marcus:  There was nothing that could not be forgiven.  But the human in question had to want it.  They had to have remorse, and for that, they had to know what their sin was in the first place.  Tomas had learned, as a priest, that coming to understand that was often a person’s greatest challenge.  They fixated on foolish things like masturbation or eating a second piece of cake during Lent and forgot about kindness, generosity…love for the unlovable. 

                “I told you,” the man said.  “I’m Stephen Corinth.  I live in Detroit, and I hope we’ll all be returning there very soon because I hate this fucking Seattle climate.  Rain, rain, rain, all the time.  I inherited a lot of money from a man who also inherited a lot of money.  I have desires that I don’t dare reveal in public, which puts me in touch with a lot of other twisted sinners.  I suppose that makes me useful.  Would you like something to eat?”

                Tomas shook his head.

                “You really should.  You look awful.”

                “I can’t.”

                “Very well,” the man sighed.  “Look, I hope you will call me Stephen.”

                Tomas looked at the man.  He was sincere.  He sincerely wanted Tomas’s friendship, and he had just stood by and watched while a demon reduced Tomas to a snivelling mess to make some sort of point. 

                “Stephen,” Tomas tried.  “You need to let me go—“

                Stephen raised a hand, stopping him before he could finish.  “I can’t do that.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I want to survive what’s coming.  And because I have a daughter, and I want her to survive.”

                Tomas closed his eyes and summoned some tiny degree of generosity.  He had to remember compassion, and it was not so hard once he imagined that this man was a father.  “They have her?”

                “They have threatened that if I do not help them, she will become possessed.”  Stephen shrugged.  “And they can also blackmail me.  As I said, I have some particular tastes.”

                “You cannot think you are wrong just because you are gay.”

                Stephen smiled at Tomas.  “Samyaza is right.  You have some unusual beliefs for a Catholic priest.”

                Tomas didn’t have the will or the energy to debate him.  His eyes felt like weighted blankets.  He needed to shut down consciousness, to stop his awareness of this situation, just for a little while.  “I want my clothes back,” he said.  He knew he sounded like a child, but it was too late.  “I don’t want these.”

                “Tomas…those clothes…they’re ruined.”

                “I don’t want these.”

                “Baby boy.”  Stephen crowded Tomas, nudging him and pushing him until he was sitting on the bed with Stephen beside him, strumming his arm.  “Listen to me now, okay?  You must let me take care of you.  I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.  Buying clothes for you will bring me some small joy in this miserable existence we’re going to be sharing.”

                “I—I need my collar—“

                “Is it your collar that makes you a priest?”

                Tomas was unable to reply to that.  He’d once made a similar argument to Marcus, after all.

                “I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said.

                “I know,” Stephen pouted, petting him some more. 

                “Please,” Tomas said.  “Stop touching me and just… I heard you say you’d explain things.”

                Stephen’s hand froze.  He nodded at Tomas once, and with a curious sort of formality, removing his hand.

                “All right.  Here’s what I know.  In the Bible, there are people who are chosen to speak god’s word.  The prophets.”

                Tomas stared at him, stricken.  “What are you saying?  That I am a prophet?”

                “If you lived three thousand years ago, I guess that’s what they would have called you, my boy.”

                “Did Samyaza tell you to use that word, to try to tempt me?”

                “No?  Look, call yourself whatever you want.  The fact is, you have a gift.  You are uniquely receptive to…spiritual signals.”

                “Spiritual…signals…” Tomas echoed.

                “Samyaza will explain it to you in more detail.  The important thing is, Samyaza needs you.”

                “Why would he need me?”

                “God built the angels to be… let’s call them transmitters.  Think about the stories in the Bible, about the role they play.  They are often mediators of God’s message to prophets or just mediators of revelation.  That was why He created them.  They angels are very powerful beings, but they weren’t given the right or the ability to choose for themselves.   Not like humans.”

                “I know this story,” Tomas murmured.  He had pity for the angels who fell, he did.  But they had made a choice to fall away from God, to rise in rage against Him and His creation and that could not be condoned.  They did horrible things and caused unspeakable suffering just to express their displeasure with God. 

                “You do, but have you really thought about what it means?  God gave humans something incredible that He refused to the angels.  Not only did He give us the ability to feel and sense with our bodies, to enjoy this world in a way that an angel cannot, on its own, He built us with free will.”

                “Angels also have the ability to choose. They chose to fall.”

                “But they were not built for making such choices.  They are like children who can never grow up, while we were made specifically to change over time, to learn from our mistakes.  That’s why angels seek to possess us, so they can experience the richness of this creation, but also so they can have agency in this world.  No angel could ever exorcise a demon.  That’s why you can be sure that Samyaza really does want to keep you alive and he really does want to help you learn how to use your gift.”

                “So that he can create hell on earth.”

                “I will keep telling you this, Tomas.  There are different factions of angels.  Yes, some are lost in their pain.  All they care about is avenging themselves on God’s creation.  That is not what Samyaza wants.  Now, what he is offering you is a chance to learn how to seize the angel’s power and use it for exorcism.  You will be unstoppable, and clearly, Samyaza will not mind if you use this power to take down all the demons who oppose him. “

                “And if I then come after him?”

                Stephen smiled.  “He’s fine with that.”

                “Because he doesn’t think I’ll succeed.”

                “Well, yes.”

                “So what was that today?”

                “That is what happens when you make him angry.”

                Tomas stared at him and began to shiver. 

                “I don’t want to see that again,” Stephen said.  “Please don’t make him do that to you again.”

                “But—I’m an exorcist—“

                “And you will be exorcising demons, while protecting your friend Marcus.  And yourself.  Can you see that this is really the best course right now?  Of course it is not ideal, but I’m sure that God wants you to survive.”

                Tomas said quietly, “Will you please leave me alone now?”

                Stephen took a long pause before saying, “All right.  But listen, my room is right through there.”  He pointed at an adjoining door.  “If you need me for anything at all, you just knock.”  He stood up and said, after another pause.  “Please don’t try to run away in the night.  There are men out the hallway who will stop you, and then Samyaza will have to punish you again, and I can’t bear to see that.”

                He left through the side door.  Tomas noted, absently, that it locked from the other side.  He could not get out, but Stephen could get in whenever he wanted.

                Tomas immediately got under all the covers in the bed, fully clothed.  He pulled them up over his head, folded his body into the tightest comma that he could, and shook.  He had always been able to find comfort in the words of God, but at the moment his mind was a jagged mess of half-sentences and images.  There was just one name that he could summon.

                “Marcus,” he prayed.  “Marcus, please.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus is boxed in, and Samayaza likes to monologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark times ahead.

 

 

 

               

 

 

                The dream was the worst yet. 

                His father charging at him, hands covered with his mother’s blood and brain matter.  Marcus raised the rifle but couldn’t seem to get his hands around the trigger.  He couldn’t make the damned thing work.  His hands skidded over wood and metal without finding purchase.  Time stretched out and out.  It seemed like if he could just start over, pull himself together, then he could _do_ this—

                _Marcus_ , said a voice from near the floor.

                He looked down and it was not his mother he saw, now it was Tomas with his skull smashed.  He was pleading with overflowing eyes, his eyelashes clumped together by saline and blood.  There were clumps of other things scattered about, bits of brain and bone and hair.  _Why didn’t you help me_? he begged. 

                Marcus woke with a scream.

                He laid in the dark for hours, not wanting to close his eyes again.  It didn’t much help.  He’d never been good with inactivity.  It gave him too much time to think about all The Bad in his life, all the sins he’d committed, all the sins committed against him.  _I’m not fit_ , he’d told Tomas.  _But I can try_.  Trying was all he’d ever really had, and he’d made a damned good show of it.  Pin him down like this and he had nothing to try, nothing to show.  He was a wreckage of dismal memories and morbid anxiety.

                He had a nightmare snapshot of his Mum’s final expression permanently etched in his brain.  Funny thing about it though, he barely remembered what she looked like otherwise, it had been so many years, and he never had a real picture of her.  Same went for his Pop.  He would see them in nightmares and know it was them but, all the same, he wasn’t sure he could have recognized them if he’d bumped into their ghosts on the street.  He was older now than they’d been when they died.

                He had a good, clean image of Andy’s head, snapping under a bullet’s momentum.  That was not going away any time soon. 

                And now Tomas’s sorrowful, gory face, still beautiful when half destroyed.  That would be that Catholic in him, Marcus supposed.  You spend your life staring at gilt images of a tortured man on a cross and saints in the throes of martyrdom, of course you find horror pleasing to the eye. 

                Except he didn’t want Tomas to be hurt.  He would kill to protect him.  He would happily damn himself—except hadn’t he been damned already?  Murder was a sin, maybe mitigated by self-defense, but when he’d killed his father, all he could remember feeling was rage, and a need to avenge himself and his Mum.  So maybe he’d been damned these forty years.  Maybe God was a bloody accountant with an abacus for a heart and Marcus could never earn back his soul having once lost it.  As a child, he’d dreamed about going to hell, frequently, until God chose to make him an exorcist and he figured that meant all was forgiven in some way.  But that had been a child’s tit-for-tat morality.

                If he was damned, then he should do whatever he had to, to get out of here and to find Tomas.

                Once during their extended road trip, when he and Tomas had been laying on their respective motel beds watching _Die Hard_ on the telly and Marcus had remarked on the ludicrousness of the entire scenario, Tomas had said, _you don’t think you would be like John McClane if you were in his situation?_

                Marcus had laughed.  _Mate, I would have found a way to climb out of there myself and gone for a nice fry-up._

                And Tomas had given him a smile that Marcus couldn’t interpret at the time, and had said _, no, you wouldn’t_. 

                More than a month ago, two men playing at being cops had approached him and asked him to come with them.  If someone had told him, when he’d realized that those cops were not taking him to the police station, that he would end up stuck in a cement box all this time with no end in sight, he might have tried throwing himself out of a moving car like Bruce Willis.  But he hadn’t known, so he’d gone along, waiting to find out the score, biding his time.  It had been a huge mistake.  At some point he’d been hit over the head and woke up in this damned room.           

                In this room, he’d had way too much time to think.  He’d realized that the look Tomas had given him that night when he said _no, you wouldn’t_ had been similar to that of a younger boy at an older boy in the schoolyard who just done something particularly impetuous or heroic.  It was embarrassing considering his current predicament.  Yeah, he’d fought his way out of some sticky wickets, mostly through luck and nerve rather than muscle or skill.  In fact, he’d learned early in life that the right note of aggression could carry you through many situations.  He never took any pride in his violence and couldn’t recall what he might have done to earn him that sort of admiration from Tomas. 

                In this room bravery had gotten him nowhere.  It had only taken a few tries before he’d given up on attacking his keepers.  There were too many of them for him, scrappy as he was.  They weren’t possessed but there was definitely something unnatural going on there.  He’d tried shouting questions at them.  Where was he?  Who were they?  Who were they working for?  What did they want?  Where was Tomas?  Over and over until his voice gave out, like he was trying to exorcise his own fear.  They never answered.  They didn’t so much as twitch or blink when he resorted to screaming the worst, foulest insults he could muster in an attempt to get them to react.  They were essentially zombies, like some of the terrifying people who had wandered the streets of Chicago, occasionally being put to work by Tattersal Landscaping.  Some seemed vacant when not seized by the will of whatever demon or demons were in charge of them.  Others were obviously sick, mentally disturbed or hearing voices.    Prayers had no effect on them.  Bible verses had no effect.  When Marcus had tried rushing them, they contained him quickly and easily, like a pack of dogs playing with a stick.  Not trying to hurt him but not terribly careful of him either.  They were all men, all beefy and oblivious to his well-being as well as their own. 

                His dungeon was like a reasonably pleasant hotel room except there was a surveillance camera and no windows, no access to the outside world other than the TV, which did give him local news.  He had deduced he was still in the Seattle area.  On the first day he’d seen coverage of “the murders on Nachburn Island” and nothing since.  It was all being pinned on Andy, a tragic foster father gone round the bend after his wife killed herself and a deranged mother came after one of his charges.  Hearing it like that made Marcus want to throw a brick at the TV.  In his storied career, he’d rarely lost.  Mouse had called it a win but it would never feel like one to him. 

                His food was brought to him on paper plates, with plastic utensils.  It was uninspired but nourishing, three-squares-a-day, mind your veggies and your proteins.  One day it was breaded chicken, mac ‘n cheese and frozen peas and carrots, the next some version of pot roast, potatoes and green beans.  It reminded him of institutional fare and he wondered just how many inmates they were keeping in this asylum.

                 Diligent searches of the room revealed absolutely nothing he might have used as a weapon.  Even if he could have managed to get out the door, he still had no idea where he was or what he would need to do to gain his freedom.  It looked like there were two men on the door outside, and he’d glimpsed more moving around in the hallway.

                What he didn’t understand was why they were keeping him here, feeding and watering him and not harming him, other than perhaps trying to drive him mad with desperation and boredom.  They had brought him his Bible and his tapes and tape recorder.  At first he refused to humour them by listening or reading but he gave that up out of sheer boredom.  He spent his days scribbling, praying and pacing the room, and when he couldn’t do that one second more, he would turn on the telly to distract himself.  It didn’t work.  He thought endlessly about Tomas.  He knew they had him and were going to be trying to use him for something.  And Tomas, bless him, had a remarkably poor sense of self-preservation.  Yeah, no, maybe that was unfair.  Tomas wasn’t stupid, he was just… surprisingly _innocent_ for a guy who had grown up in one of Mexico City’s poorest neighbourhoods and worked as a priest in a depressed urban jungle for several years.  He had seen some things, no question, and yet he was still—dismayingly, to Marcus—trusting and hoping for the best in people.

                Their third exorcism together—and Marcus did spend an inordinate amount of time replaying his and Tomas’s greatest hits now—had been a case in point. 

                The young man had been from a very close-knit family in one of those very, very conservative Catholic families, the kind that claimed they were in touch with the _real_ , old school Christianity, never mind that it was entirely an invention of the 20th century.  Marcus wasn’t there to give theological direction, and he’d been warned by Bennett ahead of time to keep his mouth shut.  It had been Tomas who could barely contain his outrage.  It seemed the young man had been molested by a family friend over a period of years as a teenager and had found the courage to go to the authorities and even to maintain his story in the face of condemnation and disbelief from his entire family.  He’d had to cut ties with most of them, join a different church.  But when a demon began whispering to him, he fell prey to it, for it knew where the wounds were in him and how to pry them open.  The young man, now possessed, had allowed the estranged family back into his life, and they had been the ones to contact the church.

                By the time Tomas and Marcus had arrived, the situation had not-so-miraculously changed.  The family, advised by friends, had taken the young man to a psychiatrist and had him diagnosed as schizophrenic.  And naturally, since he was now psychotic, this cast some doubt on the legal value of his story of being molested.

                Tomas had been willing to accept this, only because he could not bring himself to believe that a loving family would somehow prefer the stigma of mental illness and false accusation to the worse truth of sexual assault and demonic possession.  He could not believe that a loving family would condone such a lie out of their need to believe that the molestation hadn’t happened and, even worse, to thus deny the young man the help he needed.  He knew that terrible things happened within families but he still couldn’t attribute such petty, unintentional villainy to them.

                Marcus had known better.

                He had arranged for a second psychiatric examination, which was a regular part of the official procedure in any case, and the diagnosis was overturned. 

                What Tomas didn’t seem to understand was that it was quite possible to genuinely love your son and still act like a self-serving, self-deluded twat.  It was perhaps to Tomas’s credit that that form of love was unfamiliar to him, but there it was.

                It had terrified Marcus for him then and it terrified him now.

                The dreams were variations on a theme.  The broad motif was this:  Marcus would hear Tomas crying out for him, begging him for help, but he could never reach him.  In one version, Tomas would be on the side of a mountain slope, reaching up with a fraught hand and Marcus would be stretching down, extending every last bit of himself and still their fingers would be just a few inches apart.  In another, Tomas was drowning and Marcus was swimming, kicking with all his might while holding his breath, knowing that he was just one second away from dying, and again he couldn’t seem to span those last few inches and had to watch as Tomas sank and sank and Marcus lost sight of him forever, and he woke feeling like his lungs were going to explode.

                The meaning here was perfectly obvious.  No interpretation needed, Dr. Freud.

                 

 

 

                After thirty-something days of this, Marcus had had enough.

                “That’s it,” he declared at the surveillance camera.  “Where is Tomas?”

                The zombie who had just brought him his breakfast tray turned long enough to give him a blank look, then resumed his shamble to the door. 

                “I just want to talk to him.  Just talk to him, damn you!”

                In reply, he got a resounding nothing.

                “Whoever is in charge!” he shouted at the ceiling, at the video camera.  He picked up his tray and threw it at the camera.  The food sprayed across the walls; the very non-aerodynamic paper plate traced an upwards arc and fluttered to the floor.   At least the plastic tray made a satisfying _clunk_.  “I know you’re watching!  Show yourself, you cunt!  I’m going on a hunger strike!  If you don’t let me talk to Tomas, I’ll starve myself and I know you want me alive!”

                He had a sense that his emotions were precarious.  He didn’t much care.

                “Coward!” he screamed.  “Fucking coward!”

                He did not get an immediate response, but a few hours later, a man entered.  He was wearing scarlet robes.  An archbishop, apparently.  He had golden blond hair shot with silver, big, blue doll-like eyes and smooth, smooth skin.  He instantly made Marcus’s skin crawl with his mannequin-like perfection.

                “Marcus Keane,” he said, and he was an _it_.  It made no pretense of being anything other than a demon, what with the voice and the third eye to go with it.  “You’re being tiresome.”

                Marcus glared at him.  He slumped down on his bed like a rebellious adolescent and stared despondently at the telly.  It was set on _The View_.  He hated daytime television.

                The demon clucked his tongue.  The TV clicked off.  “Marcus, Marcus, do you realize what Tomas has sacrificed to keep you safe?  You die on us and it will undoubtedly break him.”

                Marcus sat bolt upright.  His voice was rough with emotion. “What…what are you doing…to him?”

                “Nothing he hasn’t consented to.”

                “Please,” Marcus growled.  “You’re a bad guy…you can’t…” He broke off, choking on the back of his own throat.  On some silent cue, a zombie entered and offered Marcus a paper cup of tea.  Marcus was already missing his usual morning dose, which was currently splattered across the wall like modern art.  He took the cup and drank.  Slightly restored, he went on, “You can’t resist telling me about your evil plan, yeah?”

                The demon granted him an amused shrug.  “Are we in a comic book?”

                “C’mon…spill.”

                Over his shoulder, the demon called, “Bring me a chair and bring Mr. Keane a bowl of porridge.  You are going to eat, Mr. Keane, because if not we will simply insert a feeding tube and you will have gained nothing.”

                The zombies scurried, doing the demon’s bidding.  The chair was brought and the demon sat, while in short order the porridge arrived with a plastic spoon.  There was even a dollop of honey on top.

                “I hate porridge,” Marcus declared.

                “But you are going to eat this porridge, aren’t you?”

                It wasn’t a question.

                Marcus forced himself to take a bite.  He came very close to upchucking the first bite out of sheer bloody-minded anxiety, but then his stomach settled and he was able to continue, very slowly. 

                The demon-archbishop primly crossed one knee over the other.

                “You can thank Tomas for that very unsatisfying meal, by the way.”

                “Is that a fact?” Marcus said, hating the familiarity of Tomas’s name in the creature’s mouth.

                “Yes.  A few days ago he was right in the middle of an exorcism.  Sweat and sick and blood all over him and he looks at me and says ‘Marcus is hungry.’  Even after my thousands of years of existence, I didn’t quite put it together until a couple of hours ago.  I immediately checked our video feeds and saw you screaming at the wall.  Shame on you, Marcus.  I thought suicide was strictly against the rules.”

                Marcus levelled a look at the man-demon.  He appeared about sixty, albeit a very youthful sixty.  “I have a question for you, yeah?” Marcus said.  It hadn’t escaped him that the creature had said _exorcism_ in relation to Tomas.  “What the fuck is all this?”

                His visitor laughed charmingly.  Marcus could not deny that he had charisma to burn.  “My friend, if you make all our conversations this interesting, I will make a point of visiting more often.”

                “Who are you?”

                “Samyaza.”

                The name rang as familiar.  Biblical, to be sure, and clearly the demon expected his name to resonate.  Marcus had never been much interested in demon and angel lore, preferring a more hands on approach.  Still, it was a good idea to find out everything he could and that meant keeping this creature talking.  Demons loved the sound of their own voices without exception, no matter how jumped up.  And this one, patently, was more jumped up than most.

                “Or did you mean this—?”  The demon gestured at himself like a model on some game show displaying a prize.  “Shell.”

                “All of it,” Marcus said. 

                “Archbishop David O’Neal.  And to get some of the basics covered… I’ve been integrated since David was a lowly parish priest.  Just like our Tomas, he was a rising star.  Just the sort of ambitious go-getter a demon like myself looks for.  I approached him, he said yes…the rest is history.”

                “Except Tomas would never say yes.”

                “Oh, he already has.”

                “What are you doing to him?”

                “I’m not doing anything to him.  I’m helping him.  While you’ve been vacationing down here for the past month, Marcus, Tomas and I have been on the next phase of his apprenticeship.  And in return for my teaching him, he’s exorcised five demons for me.”

                “He’s exorcising demons for _you_.”

                “Yes.”

                “Willingly.”

                “Yes.”

                “You expect me to believe that?”

                “It’s the truth, Marcus.”  And then, Samyaza smirked.  “Sort of.  He’s so delightfully naïve, though, isn’t he?”

                Marcus was afraid of breaking a tooth, he was gritting his teeth so hard.

                “There is nothing better than using the truth to manipulate a man of God into doing exactly what you want,” Samyaza crowed.  “I am helping him to learn how to exorcise demons in a new way.  I am an angel, after all, it’s what I was built for.  I’m an expression of divine grace, and Tomas, well…he’s the instrument I was built to play upon.  Every time he does it, he gets better at it.  The last one took him just a few hours.  Quite an improvement from the first time—I’m afraid he overloaded the poor man’s central processor, so to speak.  Wiped out the hard drive.  I’ll still find a use for him but it’s too bad, really.”

                Marcus felt sick to his stomach.  He put down the bowl of porridge.

                “You should finish that,” Samyaza said.

                “Maybe later.”

                “You may think it impossible that Tomas is doing what he’s doing, working with me, but he’s just fulfilling his calling.  As a matter of fact, today is one of Tomas’s first tries on an integrated demon… nothing too hard, just a warm up… and then do you know who our first big test case is going to be?  Your dear friend Bennett.”

                “No,” Marcus said before he could help himself.

                “Oh, yes.  It was too much temptation for an exorcist like your little cub.  I dangled Bennett in front of him and he couldn’t help biting.  Can’t really say how that’s going to go although I’m sure it’s going to be very entertaining.  I really do want to be able to repurpose Bennett’s body so I have every hope that Tomas will succeed.”

                Marcus startled with shock.  “Repurpose?”

                “That’s what this is all about.  Why did you think I was having Tomas exorcise all those demons?”

                “Honestly?  I don’t give much of a fuck.”

                Samyaza laughed heartily.  “I _will_ be coming to see you more often.  Your cub is nice to look at but he doesn’t have much of a sense of humour.  You really thought I was making him exorcise demons just for kicks?”

                “To mess with him, get more in his head,” Marcus growled.

                “Well, that too.  But I have an entire legion of demons waiting for bodies.  The problem is, some of the most useful bodies are currently occupied.  The demon possessing Bennett, let me tell you about it, Marcus.  His name is Asag.  He was known to the Sumerians and the Babylonians as a king of demons, a destroyer of gods, an eater of children.  He wants nothing but to create misery and filth, to defile everything he touches.  I’ve known him for thousands of years and I have defeated him many times.”

                “If you’ve defeated him, why does he keep coming back?”

                The demon’s eyes glowed hot.  “Because he is a rodent, a cockroach that is nearly impossible to kill!  He is no fallen angel but was spawned by chaos and death.  He was my mortal enemy when I was still one of God’s elite.  I defeated him then and I will defeat him this time, only this time I will end him.  That’s where Tomas comes in. I need a pet exorcist.”

                Moving to the edge of his bed, Marcus rested his elbows on his knees, folding his hands.  “How does it work?” he asked in a tone of deliberate interest.

                Samyaza gave him a canny look, like he knew what Marcus was after, but he answered anyway.  “He goes into the shared space of the possessed and the demon and explores until he finds some remnant of the possessed.  It will be especially difficult with the integrated, of course, but there usually is something.  He’s able to construct a kind of safe space where he can interact with the person and learn something about them.  I’m like the ride along on this whole procedure.  I give him little injections of my power so he has the strength he needs to go where he wants, to construct and move things around and enter and exit at will.”

                “You possess him.”

                “No.  God possesses him.  You must realize that, don’t you, Marcus?  Angels are nothing if not expressions of God’s divine power.”

                “Except you aren’t an angel anymore. You’re twisted and distorted from your original purpose and every time you touch him, you stain him.”

                “If you want to think about it that way, sure.  God made me an instrument of his _mighty member_ … and now I’m going to put it in Tomas.  I’m going to stain him quite liberally.”

                It took all of the strength that Marcus had in him to keep from leaping up, trying to attack the man.  He knew that demons were not invulnerable.  He’d killed Simon, after all.  But he had no weapon, and this demon could probably flatten him without even blinking. 

                Samyaza waited him out, then leaned in and said conspiratorially, “Do you know what the absolute best part of this is?  I really do believe that God has chosen to put Tomas in this position.  For some reason, God wants me to do this to him.  Maybe He just is that cruel.  You know, day by day I can see the faith getting just a little bit weaker and weaker?  Pretty soon it’ll shatter altogether and I’ll be there to see it.  It’s going to be beautiful.”

                “And then what?” Marcus said through gritted teeth.  “You offer him possession?  Because I’ve got news for you.  He will _never_ … agree to that.”

                “You know perfectly well that anyone can be tempted under the right circumstances, Marcus.  Even you.”

                Marcus shook his head.

                “But I’m going to tell you something.  Tomas is no use to me possessed.”

                “How’s that?”

                “It’s true.  If I possess him, I lose his abilities.   It’s just one of those really annoying technicalities that God chose to saddle us with.  No, this is much better.  I turn Tomas into my own weapon.  An empty, broken toy, good for nothing but using as I want.  And believe me, I can think of plenty of uses for him.”

                This time, Marcus could not control himself.  He could not hold back.  He was done being sane.  He surged up, making ready to kill, knowing that God would somehow be with him.

                He made it about two inches before he was smashed back onto the bed, flat on his back, while the demon gloated.

                “So in other words,” Marcus ground out, able only to move his mouth and hoping that his words carried enough poison for murder, “Despite your delusions to the contrary you’re just like every other demon… a piss ant bully looking for any way you can to break your father’s toys, because you’re _weak._   You’re nothing, and you know it, and that’s why you go around trying to smash whatever you can.”

                For several seconds, Samyaza just stood over Marcus, and he waited for the pain to begin.

                “Not true,” Samyaza said, utterly serene.  “I am no ordinary demon.  I’m much, much worse.  I’m the leader of the Watcher angels.  I taught humans how to conduct war.  I created an entire race of monsters, and I once stood toe to toe with God in heaven’s court.  Some scholars believe that the medieval got Lucifer confused with me.  He stole credit for some of my greatest hits.  But I’m over that now.  I’ve always enjoyed special projects.  As soon as I saw your cub, I knew I had to have him.  I’m going to take all sorts of pleasure in ruining him, in every way possible.”

                Marcus struggle to move a hand, a foot, anything.  He remained pressed to the bed, utterly helpless and humiliated.  He had nothing but words, was reduced to pleading.  “Let me see him.”

                He was rewarded with a look of genuine surprise.  “Now, Marcus, really.”

                “It’s in your best interest.”

                “Is it?  Do tell.”

                “Tomas isn’t stupid.  He’s going to want proof that you’ve kidnapped me.”

                “He has proof.”  Samyaza pointed above their heads, at the surveillance camera.

                “You show him an image of me on a screen, how does he know it’s current?  How does he know I’m still alive, or that you’re not torturing me?”

                “He knows.”

                The demon seemed about to leave, and Marcus scrambled for something, anything that might get him alone in a room with Tomas.  “I can help you with your Asag project.”

                The eyebrows lifted; the mouth smirked.  “Now _that_ is interesting.  How exactly do you think you can help?”

                “I’m Rome’s greatest living exorcist, obviously, and I’m Tomas’s teacher.”

                “Please!  From what I hear, you were teaching him how to ignore his gifts and doing everything in your power to pretend they didn’t exist.”  The pretty, boyish face shifted itself into a _tsk-tsk_ expression.  “Jealousy is so unbecoming, Marcus.  Now I know you want to keep pretty Tomas to yourself but you didn’t have a very good upbringing so you never learned about sharing.”

                It was the third or fourth insinuation of this type, and Marcus, pinned and imprisoned, was beginning to feel close to panic.  “I—what—?”

                “I know you aren’t that oblivious, Marcus.”

                Suddenly, Marcus’s mind was awash in images, all of them familiar, yet pulled from him unwillingly, as though he’d hidden them from himself.

                Tomas pressed up against a doorway, staring at him with eyes like big, soft question marks.  His body was firm under Marcus’s hands but he gave way to Marcus like he didn’t know resistance was an option.

                Tomas looking to him about a thousand times with that same look.  _Teach me, Marcus_.  Completely open to whatever Marcus wanted.

                Then, Tomas, furious, stubborn or frustrated, telling Marcus how it was, but still with that gentle knowingness in his eyes that sometimes made Marcus want to strangle him.

                The feel of stubble over surprisingly soft skin against his hands as he cupped Tomas’s face.  Up close, he had freckles.  Once, a thumb had brushed Tomas’s mouth and Marcus thought he felt a tremor of reaction.

                The scent of healthy male sweat in the truck cab as Tomas gleamed through a hot afternoon in central Missouri. 

                The hum of Tomas’s voice when they stood together praying.

                Every time he had caught a glimpse of the shape of Tomas’s muscular arms.  He’d seen him coming back from his run, glistening and puffing and moving with a grace and certainty that Marcus could only envy, and he’d made himself look away.

                A thousand moments he’d noticed and not let himself notice.

                If there was any question about the demon’s insinuations and his intentions now, the leer on his face left no doubts in Marcus.

                Marcus gasped, “I don’t know what you’re talking about—but you leave him alone.”       

                “You can’t expect me not to ‘tap’ that,” Samyaza purred.  “It must just be killing you to think I’ll get there first.”

                “It wasn’t— _isn’t_ like that.  You want to be a tired, mustache-twirling cliché?  You just got through telling me how that isn’t your style.” 

                But Marcus knew that it was very much the demon’s style, that rape was always potentially on the program for demons.  Possession itself was an extended rape, and Marcus could see just how badly Samyaza wanted to inflict this pain on the both of them.  It was as though all the sadism that had been submerged beneath the mask of pleasant, urbane chatter was on the surface, roiling in his eyes and sneering in his mouth.  He was barely able to retain the charade of humanity.  All demons wanted nothing but to visit their own pain upon human beings, to ultimately convince them that their existence could be valued at nothing, to lose hope and die in filth and shame and despair, detached from God’s grace.  It was that simple.  Angels were not to be God’s favoured children, so they, now as demons, chose to wreck the favourites if they could.  They revelled in stealing human bodies so they could enjoy all the fruits of embodiment… pleasures like food, sex, music, luxury.  They would never take the simpler route over the more complex one if it meant a chance to deliver corporeal suffering and sorrow on humans and take carnal pleasures for themselves.  Marcus had seen it again and again. 

                “Let me tell you who I am,” Samyaza returned easily, and then he recited, “ _When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose_.”

                Marcus felt a chill of an entirely new sort of terror, although he wasn’t sure exactly why.  “Genesis.  The Nephilim.”

                “Yes.  My children.  And they were destroyed by God and his archangels.  Their ghosts are still among us on Earth, looking for a home.”

                “That’s how your name is familiar.  Samyaza, Azazel, Sammael…”

                “In Genesis, we are still known as the sons of God.  Interesting twist, is it not?”

                Marcus managed a small shrug.

                “We went from being sons of God, part of his heavenly court, to being demons, all because we found some human women attractive.  But let me tell you… I was never blind to the attractions of the male sex.  I’m an equal opportunity sort of angel.”

                Marcus stared at the demon with his acquisitive gleaming eyes and couldn’t find a word to speak.            

                “The church is so viciously homophobic.  Not to mention the Bible.  Of course there was no risk of siring abominations on them but if I can create a new form of life in a woman’s womb, I should be able to effect a permanent change in a man’s body too.  I’ve been giving Tomas tiny little injections so far by just touching him on the shoulder while he does his thing.  Imagine what I could do with my cock.”

                “Please.”  Marcus knew he was begging and that it was exactly what the demon wanted.  “Please don’t do this to him.  _Please_.”

                The face of the demon fairly glowed with pleasure. 

                Marcus struggled and managed to grab at his robe.  He didn’t care how it looked. “I’m begging you!  You want to rape someone, here I am!  Don’t do this!” 

                Samyaza flung his hand off with a look of pleased disgust.  “Oh, Marcus, that’s just pathetic.  You’re no use to me.”  He smoothed his crimson robe, considering, then said:  “I’ll give you a choice though.  I can make it like you’re coming to him in a dream.  It will pleasurable for him at the time.  At some point he’ll probably figure out what happened, but still… probably a lot less traumatic in the long run.  Or I go in and just do it.  No lies, no fantasies.  He’ll know exactly what’s going on.  It’ll hurt but at least he won’t have to be confused about his feelings—either for you or for me.”

                “Cunt-faced motherfucker.”

                Samyaza smiled.  “Either you choose or I will.”

                It was no choice at all.  Marcus knew what Samyaza would choose because it would cause the most pain.  Even with a demon’s ego, assuming he would always have Tomas in his control, the thought of destroying the relationship between Tomas and Marcus was too delicious.  Tomas would never trust Marcus again…maybe be incapable of ever trusting anyone again.  Whereas a straightforward assault, a bad man doing bad things to him, in a way would be a mercy.  It would be terrifying and painful but maybe he could survive it.

                It was also the more selfish choice for Marcus and Samyaza knew that. 

                Marcus saw that Samyaza was watching.  Taking immense pleasure in whatever he was observing in Marcus. 

                “How can I know,” he asked, “that you’ll even abide by what I choose?”

                “You don’t,” Samyaza replied.  “So what’ll it be?”

 

 

 

                After Samyaza left, Marcus laid on his bed and wept.  There was no pressure holding him to it, but he felt weighed down nonetheless.  He couldn’t find in himself any sort of desire to move.  For the first few hours, he couldn’t even pray.  Eventually he did gather sufficient will to begin muttering some of his favourite lines from Isaiah 41, stumbling and repeating them like he was clutching a talisman to his chest:  _So do not fear for I am with you, do not be dismayed, for I am your God, I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand do not be dismayed, for I am your God, I will strengthen you and help you I am your God, I will strengthen you—_

                A hand touched his, and jerked a look to the figure beside him.

                “Oh, god,” Marcus breathed.  “Tomas.”

                He knew, he knew it had to be a false image sent to torment him but all the same his heart leapt with relief and joy to see the man sitting next to him.  It had been so long since he’d seen Tomas’s face.  He was himself, and not.  He was wearing his priest’s uniform but, as Marcus stared he realized it was covered in blood.  There was blood on Tomas’s face, in his hair, on his collar. His hair had grown long enough to curl thickly around his face, and his eyes—his eyes were like enormous bruises in a ghastly, gaunt face.

                Marcus made to rise but before he could Tomas-figure collapsed against Marcus.  Marcus grasped his face in both his hands, peering into it. 

                He was crying tears of blood.

                “Marcus,” Tomas pleaded, his mouth and teeth red-stained.  “Why haven’t you come for me?  I’ve been waiting for you to come and get me.  They’ve been hurting me, Marcus.”

                Marcus let out a moan.  “Give it up,” he said thickly.  “You don’t need to guilt me, thanks, I’ve got that covered.”

                Tomas covered Marcus’s and they felt—warm.  Alive.  Marcus felt a jolt of presence similar to what he had felt before during exorcisms, when the demon left the possessed and he felt God’s presence, just for a moment.    

                “Tomas?” he whispered.  “Is that really you?”

                As he watched, Tomas gently moved their joined hands away from his face.  He looked into Marcus’s eyes with such longing, such sadness, that Marcus felt fresh tears well up. 

                He woke to late afternoon light, and he knew what he needed to do.

                He sacrificed one of his precious cassette tapes.  He broke it apart, then he dashed the tape player as hard as he could in the porcelain tub in the tiny bathroom.  It did not shatter completely, but it left him with a few good, sharp pieces of metal.

                When they brought him his dinner, he was ready.  He jammed the sharp plastic corner of the remains of his cassette into the eye of one of them and then slammed the metal motor from inside the tape player into the temple of the other.  Without even pausing, he took his best weapon, a shard of silvery alloy that had made up part of the speaker assembly and went barrelling out the door.

                He was in a hallway constructed of cinder blocks, also with no windows.  At one end, two more zombie lummoxes stood, looking at him with such blank, surprised expressions, it could almost have been funny.  He turned in the other direction.  It was more hallway with a door at the end.  He pounded down it, seeing his liberation at hand.

                Then the door opened and four more enemies came through.  He was maddened by now, ferocious with fear and aggression.  He threw himself at them, thinking that maybe God and John McClane would somehow see him win his way through.

                They descended upon him and beat him senseless.

 


End file.
